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[Frontispiece.'] 



" Half up those rocks, conspicuous in place, 
Time's hand has chisell'd Shikalamy's face." 



Page 32. 



Legends 



Susquehanna, 



OTHEE POEMS. 



BY S 

TRUMAN H. PUEDY. 



WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY 

F. O. C. DARLEY and F. E. LUMMIS. 



/ 



3 

3j irtV 



PHILADELPHIA: 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 

1888. 



T6^ 



(M 

:*i* 



Copyright, 1887, by Truman H. Purdy. 






CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Shikalamy 7 

Sam Brady 33 

My Early Home 51 

The Peasant's Son 64 

The Centenarian 79 

The Old School-House 90 

Around the Sun - 98 

Back to my Glen 112 

Going to Mill 120 

The Crow 125 

Poor Old Warwick 129 

John White's Trial 134 

Growing Old Together 145 

How the Eagle was Made 152 

The Race 157 

The Mountains : 161 

Language of Birds 164 

Drifting 168 

The Clock of Ages 171 



4 CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Music of the Marshes 175 

Longfellow 177 

Pictures on the Sky 182 

The Forest Pine 184 

The Effect of Prayer 186 

Spare the Little Ones 189 

The Old Church at Derry 191 

The Brighter Side 196 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



Shikalamy's Face Frontispiece. 

Meeting of Nenaoma and Shikalamy . . Page 11 

Opekasset and the Spibits " 17- 

Shikalamy's Speech to his People .... " 23 

Shikalamy welcoming Zinzendobf .... " 28 

Beady and Grove in Ambush " 40" 

Beady' s Despebate Battle " 48 

The Glassy Lake " 52 

The Old Fibeside " 60" 

The Peasant's Son and the Maiden ... " 66 

Wild Geese going- Southwabd " 81 

The Old School-House " 93 

The Geeat Baen-doob ■ • • "106 

The Glen "112 

Going to Mill " 121 ■■ 

The Crow in the Cobnfield "126 

John "White's Tbial "138 

The Clock of Ages " 173 - 

PlCTUBES ON THE SKY " 182 

Christian and the Devil "188 

1* 5 



SHIKALAMY. 



EXPLANATOKY. 

The Six Nations of Indians were a confederation of six 
powerful tribes, composed of the Mohawks, Oneidas, Cayu- 
gas, and Senecas, to whom were added, in 1712, the Tus- 
caroras, with the Delawares as a conquered tribe, composed 
of the Turkeys, Turtles, Wolfs, and Muncys. They ruled 
the country from the St. Lawrence to the Carolinas, and 
from the mouth of the Hudson westward beyond the limits 
of Pennsylvania. 

Shikalamy was the head chief, with his residence at Sha- 
mokin (now Sunbury), Pennsylvania. He was baptized by 
a Catholic priest in Canada, but afterwards became a convert 
under the preaching of Moravian missionaries from Bethle- 
hem, — embracing their creed and faith. He married Nenaoma, 
a beautiful Indian woman, and had one daughter and three 
sons ; one of whom was Logan, who inherited the noble 
presence of his father, and whose family was murdered in 
Virginia by whites in 1774. A six years' war followed, at 

7 



8 SHIKALAMV. 

the close of which he refused to ask for mercy, but made 
instead that memorable address, in which he said, — 

" I appeal to any white man to say if ever he entered 
Logan's cabin hungry and he gave him no meat, if ever he 
came cold and naked and he clothed him not. . . . For my 
country I rejoice at the beams of peace ; but do not harbor the 
thought that mine is the joy of fear. Logan never felt fear." 

Shikalamy was a just man, of great ability, a firm friend 
of the whites, and a constant adviser and promoter of peace. 
He died at Shamokin, in the full triumphs of Christian 
faith, in April, 1749, t and was buried with great solemnity 
in the old Indian burying-ground on the cape, at the east 
side of the junction of the Susquehanna Eivers, lamented 
by the English king, by provincial governors, and by the 
people whom he had so long and wisely ruled. "War fol- 
lowed his death, and by 1796 the Indian titles were all 
extinguished, and the Six Nations emigrated to Canada and 
the far "West. 



SHIKALAMY. 

Wheee Susquehanna's tranquil branches meet, 
Like prince and princess, each from far retreat, 
And meeting wed, becoming henceforth one, 
Was Nature's daughter, Nenaoma, born. 
Blue Hill, which has for many ages frowned 
Upon the less imposing hills around, 
Eock-breasted, mountain-walled, had ever been 
The legendary home of wondrous men. 
Upon its crest of crags a Chieftain stood 
And overlooked the rivers and the wood : 
He carried weapons worthy of a man, 
But to the past his thoughts of glory ran. 
His braves in battle never knew retreat, 
And yet the world seemed hollow at his feet : 
For what were triumphs to a man whose breath 
In age began to compromise with Death? 
From far Cayuga he had brought his son 
To see his people where these rivers run : 



10 SHIKALAMY. 

For these Six Nations, which had been his pride, 
His son should rule when he, their chief, had died. 

Across the river, where the rippling waves 
Press round the cape as if to kiss their graves, 
His noblest warriors, passing one by one, 
Had gone in silence to the setting sun; — ■ 
To that imagined "Happy Hunting-Ground," 
Where fadeless youth and endless joys abound. 
At his recall these heroes of the past 
Drew round in memory, so fresh and fast, 
That his stern face relaxed, and willing tears 
Came to this review of the bygone years. 

His son was but the child of woods and waves, 
Caress'd by winds, and taught by birds and braves ; 
And he, while gazing from the ledges, spied 
A youthful maiden at the river's side. 
He shared not in his father's thoughts, nor tears; 
His heart, and hopes, went out to future years ; 
And quick descending from the rocks he came 
To give his own, and ask the maiden's name. 



/ 



Wiidk 




'Bound ferns and feathers to his polished bow." 

Page 1 1 



SHIKALAMY. 1J 

"My father is Oneida's Chief/' he said: 
And "I am Nenaoma," said the maid. 

They met like children, each admiring, stood 
Between the river and the fringe of wood. 
The belts of wampum, and bright robes of fur 
From half-grown otter, worn by him or her, 
Were quite unnoticed; but they quickly read 
From meaning eyes what neither of them said. 
He gave her presents carved from tooth of bear, 
And wove the partridge-berry in her hair, 
And told her tales of Northern lake and glen, 
Of fish, of birds, of forest, and of men. 

And she, her pleasure and her skill to show, 
Bound ferns and feathers to his polished bow. 
She was by nature mistress of those arts 
Which work such havoc with untutor'd hearts ; 
Her laugh was like the winsome laughing spray 
That down the side of Blue Hill found its way; 
Her native songs were like the notes of Spring, 
That joy and hopefulness forever bring: 



12 SHIKALAMY. 

Behind her fan of eagle- quills she smiled 
At all the boastings of this Royal Child ; 
And with a fairy's step she touched the sand, 
Coquetting with her Prince from Northern Land. 

From day to day they met, and stronger grew 
Their fond attachment as the moments flew : 
The little privilege with hand and face, 
The naive retreat and caution of her race, 
The winsome smile, the look, and silent word 
Which only human hearts have ever heard, 
And that First Love which comes but once, and 

steals 
The very sympathies that youth conceals, 
Had made to them this shore of rock and shade 
The dearest spot that Nature ever made. 

The old Chief's mission was at last fulfilled, 
His government had to his son been willed; 
But so enticing was this lovely plain 
That Shikalamy pleaded to remain. 



SHIKALAMY. 13 

His mild entreaties were denied and spurned, 
And to the North his youthful face was turned. 
His feet obeyed-; but he in thought was still 
With Nenaoma by the Towering Hill. 

That parting may some older ones remind 
Of times when hearts and hopes were left be- 
hind. 
From Otzinatson, past the Pictured Rock, 
Through hemlock forests, o'er the Loyalsock, 
Past Wyalusing, to the Lakes they went, 
But his young spirit, like a tree storm-bent, 
Was destined to sway back whene'er the blast, 
W T hich bore it thither, from the land had passed. 

'Round Nenaoma hung a mystic charm ; 

Perfection seem'd exhausted in her form; 

Far spread the mention of her grace and fame, 

Till many suitors 'round her wigwam came 

To seek the sunshine of her smile, but found 

Her soul to some unbending purpose bound. 
2 



14 SHIKALAMY. 

She was descended, as tradition ran, 

From some great Chief, some wise and wondrous 

man, 
Before whose step the wily hissing snake 
Fled through the sweet fern and the tangled 

brake ; 
At whose approach the wild bear shook his 

head, 
And fevers waned, and mighty armies fled. 
Who in the dim traditionary times, 
Where ocean-currents warned Alaska's climes, 
Had drifted o'er some great untraversed sea, 
And filled the land with his posterity. 
Whose brow, in anger, blacken'd like the sky 
When inky centres of the storms go by ; 
Whose voice was like the distant thunder's roar, 
Or sound of waves that break upon the shore; 
And yet whose smile, deep set in manly arts, 
Could win the latent love of countless hearts. 

One day, as on the pebbled beach she strayed, 
Beneath the sycamore, whose shadows played 



SHIKALAMT. 15 

Upon the wavelets as they rose and fell, 
Thinking of him her girlhood loved so well, 
She, half rejoicing, sang this gentle song : 

"Oh, grand old Susquehanna, through the long 
Dim years, to thee have Nature's daughters sung 
Life's song and died; but thou art ever young, 
As when the Manitou first came with thee 
To guide thy wandering wavelets to the sea; — 
Bright, sparkling, fresh and ever fair 
With youth immortal ! Let, oh, let me share 
Thy fadeless charms, and not with age and tears 
Go trembling down the pathway of the years ! 
Oh, may I never, never from thy wave 
Be cast aside to eddy 'round the grave ; 
But in the dance of Corn, or Moons, oh, may 
I ever be the brightest of the gay !" 

She ceased to sing, for down the pebbled strand 
Came Opekasset from the Northern Land — 
Her friend, and Shikalamy's messenger— 
With words of deepest interest to her. 



16 SHIKALAMY. 

"Ah, Nenaoma!" said he, " fresh and green 
In Shikalamy's thought still lives this scene: 
For here it was, in manhood's early morn, 
That in his heart the brightest hopes were born. 
He sent me hither from his wigwam door 
To seek for you on Susquehanna's shore; 
But I have pass'd through unexampled fear 
And strange adventure on my journey here ; 
For, when at night, in forests deep and dark, 
With flint to flint, I struck the kindling spark 
To light the tinder of my camp-fire there, 
I heard a rushing in the lonely air, 
And some strange spirit lit my wood to flame, 
And voices in the distance spoke my name. 
"'Tis but the wolf," I said, "or panther's cry; 
'Tis but the wind, that breathes along the sky 
To sway the interlocking trees around, 
Or stir the chafing hemlocks into sound ; 
? Tis but the bear that growls, or brooks I hear ; — 
But those weird voices seem'd to come more near, 
And as I looked among the trees, that stood 
With giant trunks around me in the wood, 




" Three forms approach'd, like spirits clad in white." 

Page 17. 



SHIKALAMY. 17 

Three forms approached, like spirits clad in white, 
And stood where darkness fringed upon my light! 
I felt a rising terror chill my frame 
As they next mentioned Shikalamy's name, 
And coupled it with yours, and uttered then 
Strange names, I never heard, of unknown men ! 
They gazed upon me; and the foremost said, 
1 When your brave Prince shall Nenaoma wed 
We will be guests/ then vanished from my sight, 
Back into darkness blacker than the night ! 
I trembled, as one quakes when roused at last 
From some dire peril, or some crisis pass'd. 
Since then, a childlike coward have I been, 
Sleeping in caverns or the wild wolfs den, — 
Hid from the night, lest I again should see 
Those haunting shadows still pursuing me ! 



" Turn not away," then Opekasset said ; 

" Next moon, if you consent, you may be wed 

To our great Prince, our future queen to be; 

Such is the message that he sends by me. 
b 2* 



18 SHIKALAMT. 

When full the moon upon the August sky, 
Come with your kindred where our chieftains lie ; 
That if perchance these forms be Demon sent 
To curse your lives or bring you discontent, 
The spirits of our braves may meet them there 
And give them battle in the pathless air ! 
In equal combat then shall shade meet shade, 
And ghostly blade be met by ghostly blade." 
" His will is mine," fair Nenaoma said : 
" Where he would lead me, there will I be led/' 

The bright full moon of August came at last, 

And o'er Shamokin all its splendors cast; 

And where the North and Western Branches meet 

Was heard the coming of the festive feet: 

A gallant band ; a brilliant native train 

That ne'er shall grace that shining shore again. 

Young Shikalamy, with his Northern braves, 
Came there amidst the old ancestral graves, 
And in his native costume, richly dress'd, 
With belts of wampum crossed upon his breast; 



SHIKALAMY. 19 

With head-gear lit by crystals from the mine, 
And bracelets wrought from quills of porcupine, 
And cloak of ermine fur, he stood to claim 
The sweetest bride that e'er to chieftain came. 

Than Nenaoma, none could be more fair; 
Wild roses from the hill-sides graced her hair, 
And hung in wreaths and festoons lightly 'round 
Her charming form, and trailed upon the ground. 
Her eyes shone like the gleaming of a star; 
Her robes were trophies, both of peace and war! 

Some of the guests were grand and noble guests, 
Were Hills, with plumes of pine upon their crests, 
And Moonlit Clouds, that hung against the sky, 
And Meteors, that flashed and floated by. 

The Guardian Spirits of their braves drew 'round, 
Like drifting shadows from each tomb and 

mound ; — 
The wind brought joyous music from the pines, 
Waves sang a chorus 'twixt the measured lines, 



20 SHIKALAMY. 

And chime of crickets and of whippoorwills 
Came forth enchanting from a hundred hills; 
And, far as rivers ran or forests went, 
Wild native songs were o'er the valleys sent. 

Grand was the feast that Nature had prepared, 
In which their tribes and conquered nations 

shared : 
Grapes bending from the vine, and berries blue, 
That on the fire-swept mountain ranges grew; 
And native viands sav'ry odors sent 
Up from the feast o'er half the continent. 

The owl grew silent in the water-oak, 
And Nenaoma, much affrighted, spoke: 
" Behold ! Behold ! those forms upon the shore ; 
See ! see them there, beneath the sycamore !" 
"We wait thy message!" Shikalamy cried; 
And answering, the First strange form replied : 
"Of these Six Nations thou art now the Chief; 
Go rule their anger and assuage their grief; 



SHIKALAMY. 21 

Let tempered mercy and strict justice be 
The soul of each command and each decree !" 
The Second spake : " As messengers to save 
Thy tribes from sin, and from the Heathen's grave, 
Shall Christians come, with pale but friendly face, 
To bring glad tidings to thy needy race \" 
Then spoke the Third : " And thou thyself shalt see 
The Son of God, once crucified for thee ! 
And shalt imagine cloud, and bird, and wave 
Rejoicing with thee, in His pow'r to save!" 

" These are the Forms, and these the voices three," 
Cried Opekasset, "that confronted me; — 
That to my camp in that lone forest came, 
And lit my smouldering fire to living flame. 
They bring no evil, but from realms afar 
They come to bless, and break our curse of war." 

Then, swift as shadows from a cloud-girt moon, 
Each fancied spirit drifted to its tomb : 
And all their forms, in mantling robes of white, 
Became again the moonbeams of the night; 



22 SHIKALAMY. 

Or scattered out upon the foggy plain, 
Becoming fire-flies and glow-worms again ! 

This wedding was unique, and, strange to say. 
Some of the guests have never turned away; 
But still remain around these honored dead, — 
Around this spot where Shikalamy wed. 
Blue Hill, which held the arching sky in air, 
With its great breast of rocks, still lingers there; 
And Catawissa's Peaks, which looked that night 
So proudly down upon a scene so bright, 
And Montour's Ridge, and Pompret's Hills, re- 
main 
At stately distance, walling in the plain ! 
And even that blue dome which circled 'round, 
And touched at equal distances the ground, 
To make of God's star-spangled firmament 
A vast blue-tinted and imperial tent, 
Still bends above this memorable place 
Of nuptial gayety and promised grace. 

As falls to earth some ripened, withered leaf, 
So at Oneida fell their aged Chief; 




Tall, graceful, and commanding, he arose." 



Page 23. 



SHIKALAMY. 23 

And Shikalamy by consent became 

Heir to his land, his tribes, and all his fame. 

The Sachems met on Susquehanna's shore, 
Their wants and woes and sorrows to deplore; 
The conquered braves from off the Delaware, 
And Shawanese, that but as women were, 
And minor chiefs of all their tribes, drew 'round, 
And smoked in silence on that council-ground ; 
All hushed in spirit by their nation's grief, 
To hear some message from their youthful Chief. 

Young Shikalamy from his wigwam came, 

And soon foreshadow'd all his future fame. 

Tall, graceful, and commanding, he arose, 

And spoke of all their nation's hopes and woes. 

"Why give to war," he said, "our noblest braves? 

Why fill the land with their untimely graves? 

Brave the defender; braver yet by far 

Is he who shuns unnecessary war ! 

For he who slays for honor, or renown, 

Weaves death and torture in his cruel crown. 



24 SHIKALAMY. 

Curs'd be the war-club and the scalping-knife, 
Accurs'd the frenzy and renown of strife. 
Curs'd be the pouch of paints, that stain the face 
And put a demon in a comrade's place. 
Curs'd be those passions which, through all the 

years, 
Have filled our land with mourning and with tears. 
Let the Great Spirit guide our souls to peace, 
And half the sorrows of our tribes will cease. 
Then every cloud that comes, or wind that blows, 
Will bear away some portion of our woes! 
Few are the evils or the wrongs we bear 
That will not vanish like the mist in air, 
And turn our darksome night to joyful day, 
When Love and Truth and Justice have their 

sway I" 
" Ugh \" said the Sachems, and the curling smoke 
Rose faster, faster, as their Chieftain spoke, 
Till on the sky its floating eddies went 
And blued the overarching firmament. 
Thus he denounced and scattered all pretence 
For cruel war by his bold eloquence. 



SHIKALAMY. 25 

"Go out," he said, "and meet each hostile band 
With pipes of peace, and wampum in your hand. 
Go to the hill-tops, and your anger cast 
Upon the wind that roars and rushes past! 
Let Vengeance weave its thunder in the showrs, 
Or hurl its lance of lightning on the ilow'rs; 
But man's humanity to man must rise, 
And be the sunlight of our social skies I" 



Three hundred souls then in Shamokin dwelt, 
And all, the wisdom of his message felt; 
Peace touched the heart of every warrior there, 
And songs of peace arose and filled the air. 
Then brighter grew each mother's dusky face; 
To aid their Chief and elevate their race; 
To heal their sorrows and their discontent, 
A hundred feet on Mercy's errands went: 
And old and sick and sorrowing could name 
What lasting joy and comfort to them came. 
Long lived his tribes in peace and happiness; 
When warriors came, they only came to bless, 



26 SHIKALAMY. 

And passing moons and seasons left no scar 
To mark the folly of unholy war. 

The social scenes, where lovers, old and young, 
Around the piping reeds in circle swung, 
Displayed their wampum, or sat down to rest, 
And cast their smiles on those they loved the best; 
The wit that taunted, and the laugh that rang 
And shook the wigwams as they danced and sang, 
All plainly told that war with its alarms 
Had been supplanted by a thousand charms! 

When Smith and Petty to Shamokin came, 
They carried back this friendly Chieftain's name, 
And o'er the ocean, to the English Crown, 
Soon went his fame and merited renown : 
And from the Home Provincial Government 
Continued tokens of esteem were sent; 
For when some thrilling, grave event trans- 
pired, 
Where ripest thought and wisdom were required, 
They counselled him in confidence that he 
Could meet and master the emergency. 



SH1KALAMT. 27 

His words and presence quieted alarm, 
And took the danger from the wildest storm. 
Through all the forests went his voice and will, 
To angry passions whispering, " Be still I" 

Thus, Shikalamy had his people bless'd; 

But still his heart refused to be at rest, 

For mingling with their common joys arose 

Yet one reminder of unbanished woes. 

" Great Spirit !" cried he, " why are loved ones 

torn 
From arms that clasp and aching hearts that 

mourn ? 
Why are we hurried, trembling and alone, 
Through death and darkness to a dread un- 
known ? 
Oh, let some light draw 'round to break the gloom 
That hangs so frowningly above the tomb !" 

From rippling streams, and limbs that chafe in air, 
Came forth the answer, " I have heard your 
pray'r I" 



28 SHIKALAMY. 

Then over mountains bearded thick with pine, 
Down through the valleys where the streamlets 

shine, 
With patient footsteps, past morass and glen, 
Came Zinzendorf to seek the souls of men. 
His beating heart, like beating drum, became 
A herald of the Cross and Saviour's name. 

The journey pass'd, Shamokin's Chief he sought, 
And told him of the tidings he had brought. 
" Welcome !" said Shikalamy : " welcome, son 
Of the Great Spirit! till thy work is done 
My wigwam shall be thine. Do not depart, 
But breathe thy message into ev'ry heart, 
For thus shall hope revive, and light be cast 
Upon our path to give us peace at last!" 

Through fifty homes in old Shamokin ran 

The hasty tidings of this pious man; 

And in the shade of trees upon the ground 

They in respectful silence gathered 'round. 

Then sang he songs they ne'er before had heard, 

And read translations from God's Holy Word; 



yy 




«&>*. 



" Welcome, son of the Great Spirit!" 



SHIKALAMY. 29 

The story of the Cross he told, and then 
Portray'd the crimes and wickedness of men. 

So came Johannes and Von Waterville, 
And in the Chieftain's home, when all was still, 
They preach'd salvation, till from Heaven came 
That strange resistless and consuming flame, 
Whose matchless light overwhelms the wise and 

brings 
Repentance both from paupers and from kings. 
Good Shikalamy felt its warmth, and he 
And Nenaoma both were made to see 
Their Saviour's glory, and discern the way 
That leads from darkness into endless day! 

Low warning zephyrs whisper'd from the shore 

That Death was hid in ambush at their door. 

Aurora cast its shining shafts of light 

Down from the sky athwart the verge of night; 

And Nenaoma, yet as bright and fair 

As when her wedding guests were gathered there, 

Beheld the silv'ry pathway where her feet 

Might from the world in quietude retreat. 
3* 



30 SHIKALAMY. 

And up that pathway, o'er the glist'ning waves, 
From nuptial scenes and old ancestral graves, 
She rose, with form that sparkled on the night, 
Above the West Branch, till a speck of light 
But dimly seen, and yet again more dim, 
Pass'd out above the blue horizon's rim ! 
So went from earth this sweetest of her race, 
And Nature found no queen to fill her place ! 

Long Shikalamy griev'd, and long his eye 

Grew moist with tears when turned upon the sky. 

The crowning grandeur of his useful life 

Was love of justice and restraint of strife; 

But nobler yet was this, that he had been 

The victor over cruelty and sin! 

Like clouds beneath the sun, whose borders show 

The glory crown'd above by tints below, 

So had the wisdom of his peaceful reign, 

By outward peace, betokened peace within. 

When ended were his toils, he cried, "I see 
A golden gate that stands ajar for me! 



SHIKALAMY. 31 

The winds push at my wigwam, and would bear 

My spirit to its Father in the air ! 

Behold ! my kindred reach with shining arms 

To welcome me from death and its alarms : 

And Nenaoma, on that distant shore, 

Is waiting for me, brighter than before! 

The waves are calling, and the white swans sing, 

The stars bend to me, and a message bring! 

Oh, Mighty Saviour! unto Thee I come, 

To share the glories of thy better home !" 

The calm of peace, of blessedness and grace, 
Still lingered on his cold but kindly face. 
Where he was wedded, there his grave was made, 
And wild-wood flow'rs upon his tomb were laid. 

Then every bee that humm'd, or dove that sigh'd, 
Or wind that moan'd o'er Susquehanna's tide, 
And every cloud that wept along the sky, 
Seem'd full of sadness as they drifted by. 
And all the pines, on every hill around, 
Have never ceas'd to send their wailing sound, 



32 SHIKALAMY. 

To fill the forests and the valleys wide 
With lamentations since this Chieftain died. 
And to this day a pensive shadow falls 
Down on the river from those tow'ring walls, 
Where Blue Hill, with its shale and rocks of red, 
Rise up to memorize the noble dead ! 

Half up those rocks, conspicuous in place, 
Time's hand has chisell'd Shikalamy's face, 
Which, looking eastward o'er the rippling wave, 
Beholds the place where chieftains made his grave. 
And yet along that beach, still whispering there, 
One hears low murmurs floating on the air: — 
" Loved Shikalamy !" say the waves that rise ; 
"Fair Nenaoma!" back the wind replies. 
And so forever, and for evermore, 
Their names shall live on Susquehanna's shore. 



SAM BEADY. 

'Twas in the stormy days of yore, 

On Susquehanna's troubled shore, 

When hearts and homes were horrified, 

That young James Brady's mother cried, 

Wailing the scalping of her son; — 

Who, in the field at Turkey Eun, 

Below where Williamsport now stands, 

Had been struck low by savage hands. 

A swift canoe had brought him down 

A martyr to Shamokin town; 

Where dying, he contrived to tell 

The names of those by whom he fell. 

That wise old Chief, whose peaceful life 

Had long restrained this cruel strife, 

Had died, and passion took control 

Of every brutal Indian's soul. 

The War-Dance was revived again, 

And in the frenzy of these men 

e 33 



34 SAM BRADY. 

They vaunted crime, and mimick'd those 
Who next should fall beneath their blows. 
They sent Sam Brady gifts of blood 
With taunt that drops should make a flood. 
"And by that blood," Sam Brady cried, 
"'No wood shall be so wild or wide 
But over all my feet shall go 
Till every guilty Brave lies low! 
Not one of all Bald Eagle's tribe 
From me, nor yet from Death, shall bribe 
One breath beyond my favored time 
. To make their lives atone their crime !" 
In answer, back, Bald Eagle sent 
His biting scorn and merriment. 
" Ah me !" he said, " the ghosts came down 
To give your brother James a crown, 
And then departed to prepare 
A door- way for him in the air!" 
When lightning flashed, he said, " Behold ! 
Sam's brother meets some woman old, 
Who braves him, and who risks to die 
Before his rifle in the sky." 



SAM BRADY. 35 

And when Aurora streaked the North, 
He said, " Sam's awful wrath goes forth 
To shake our wigwams, till the light 
Of lodge-poles tremble on the night!" 
At each eclipse of moon or sun, 
He said, "a ball from Brady's gun 
Was shot so wide its mark that soon 
It rolled across the sun or moon !" 
Thus came his brutal taunts to stir 
A rising vengeance into war. 
Deluded soul ! he did not know 
How wild would be that storm of woe, 
From whose dark bosom bolt and flame 
Would leap, consuming as it came. 



Ere long, as Brady's father, John, 
A worthy sire of such a sod, 
Whose deeds had made his noted name 
The object of a nation's fame, 
While riding near his Muncy fort, 
Was startled by the sharp report 



36 SAM BRADY. 

Of Indian rifles, and bis life 

Went out beneath the scalping-knife ! 

His death recalled a brother's fate, 
And roused to flame Sam Brady's hate. 
He heard it on Ohio's shore, 
And this the awful oath he swore: 
"By Him who made the sun to shine, 
Who said of old, 'Vengeance is mine/ 
I swear that henceforth while I live 
No mercy will I ask or give! 
My brother's blood, my father's death, 
Shall nerve me till my latest breath ! 
Revenge! shall be my battle-cry; 
Eevenge ! till every Brave shall die !" 

He quickly left his comrades there, 
And moved with caution everywhere 
O'er secret routes; and often crept 
At night where e'er they camped or slept, 
And, picking from their midst a foe, 
Would fire! then like an elk would go, 



SAM BRADY. 37 

While those who followed as he fled 
Found him too soon, and joined the dead. 
One fate his victims seemed to share; — 
From Pittsburg to the Delaware; 
From Erie to Wyoming's plain ; 
On every path he left them slain ! 
Ah yes, Bald Eagle! you who slew 
That brother at his toil, and drew 
His scalp, and sent that blood 
With taunt that drops should make a flood, 
Sam Brady's bullet comes and stings, 
And from your heart that torrent springs! 
Cold now you sleep, but Brady lives; 
He neither mercy asks nor gives! 



Where Derr's old mill was murm'ring low 

Down in the vale of Buffalo, — 

Where now the spire and college dome 

Proclaim for arts of peace a home, — 

Came rumors that the foe was near, 

And every face grew white with fear. 
4 



38 SAM BRADY. 

One, Peter Grove, to Foster's farm 

Went with these rumors of alarm. 

" Go on the hill, thrice fire your gun/' 

Said Captain Foster; "one by one 

Our Eangers will be here, and then 

We will give orders to our men." 

They came, and what was their delight 

When Brady met with them, that night! 

The Indian braves had disappeared 

From 'round Fort Pitt, and Brady feared 

That they were moving to surprise 

And make his friends a sacrifice. 

He followed, and at night he laid 

To hear the plans and threats they made, 

And round their fires had heard them boast 

"That Brady," whom they dreaded most, 

"Would come, and like a woman shed 

Great tears when all his friends were dead." 

Black Snake and Panther led the train, 

But ne'er shall find their homes again ; 

For Brady's unrelenting wrath 

Hangs dark with vengeance o'er their path. 



SAM BRADY. 39 

The children and his mother near 
Must not be told that he is here; 
For graver work than greeting, now 
Inspires his face and knits his brow. 
"My brother's blood, my father's life, 
Our homes, our scalps, are in this strife!" 
Thus thrilling, o'er each Ranger ran 
The vengeance of this mighty man. 

They soon agreed that Peter Grove 
And Brady in advance should move, 
And with their usual stealth and care 
Should spy the land, and food prepare 
At Elk Run, in the vale of Penn, 
For Foster and his gallant men. 
At break of day they quickly go 
To watch the coming of the foe; 
And at Clear Fountain, traces found, 
Of Hostiles on Bald Eagle's ground. 

A panther screams. " Hush !" Brady said ; 
"That voice is from a human head. 



40 SAM BRADY. 

I've heard it often in the West; 
It speaks of murder in his breast." 



Near to their fire that night they creep. 

"We'll wait," said Grove, "until they sleep." 

" No, no !" said Brady ; " take that thief, 

The traitor Wamp! I'll send a chief — 

The Panther — with him. When they fall 

Drop low, till every Indian ball 

Has passed above; then bounding, fly 

Towards the North : I'll pass you by. 

Hold ! that old man is in the way ; 

Panther must die some other day !" 

He gives the signal, and a pair 

Of dusky braves leap in the air. 

Then comes the whoop and blaze of guns, 

And towards the North, Grove wildly runs, 

But stops, while Brady, like a deer, 

Goes by, with Indians coming near. 

Beside a log upon the ground 

Grove falls, as past the Indians bound. 




" 'Hold ! that old man is in the way.' " 



Page 40. 



SAM BRADY. 41 

They shoot, intending to decoy, 
And Brady whoops with voice of boy; 
For at deception two can play, 
Seek ambush and await to slay. 



They soon returned, and said that here 

They saw the fleetest disappear: 

Put forth his strength, and by his flight 

Hide in the darkness of the night. 

As they passed back, Sam Brady came, 

And whisp'ring, spoke his comrade's name. 

"Why did you stop?" he said. "We lost; 

Your scalp might well have been our cost. 

We sent the Hawk and Wamp to tread 

The silent pathway of the dead; 

But might have sent some others there, 

No more to spurn the victim's prayer." 

Ah, traitor Wamp ! who long had fed 

By Brady's fire, and ate his bread, 

You, coward-like, would come to slay 

The babes with whom you used to play; 
4* 



42 SAM BRADY. 



You now have met a traitor's doom, 
And this dark vale shall be your tomb ! 



At break of day they saw the rest 
Move off toward Bald Eagle's nest. 
O'er hills then Brady led the way, 
And ere the noon had come that day, 
They hid beside a spring, and guessed 
That here the braves would pause to rest. 
"Quick work 'twill be; but if you choose, 
We'll fight," said Brady. ""Win or lose. 
Blacksnake and Panther first must fall; 
And ere they send at us a ball 
We must be thirty rods, — their shot 
Would kill us till we reach that spot." 



They came, and Panther led the way; 
Blacksnake was plainly heard to say, 
"We soon must go: to-morrow night, 
With Jacket, we must plan our fight. 



SAM BRADY. 43 

Ere Brady knows we've left the West 

His mother, in Bald Eagle's nest, 

Shall burn with fagots, and shall be 

The sport of dance and revelry. 

His burning house shall paint the skies; 

His friends shall to their fathers rise." 

Ah ! strangely Panther slips again ; — 

"That child shall not my bullet stain," 

Said Brady; "I'll his brother take." 

Their rifles but one echo make! 

They fly! Five hundred yards they rise 

Upon the hill, ere from surprise 

The Indians wake; but then they rush 

In hot pursuit o'er logs and brush, 

Pursuing down the other side, 

And tauntingly to Grove they cried. 

The Panther now was plain in view, 

And Grove his awful peril knew. 

Brady was hiding just ahead; 

And out of breath and pale with dread, 

Grove stops to meet his doom and die; 

But Panther's aspect brings a cry, — 



44 SAM BRADY. 

A useless cry, to spare his life, 
As Panther swings the scalping-knife ! 
See ! Brady's gun gleams in the air ; 
Grove lives, and Panther struggles there! 
Clutching the leaves in vain to rise, 
And whispering " Brady !" as he dies. 
Brady then sprang for Panther's gun, 
And bade Grove into ambush run. 
The scatt'ring balls from those behind 
Came hurtling, whistling in the wind. 
Foster appears ! As Indians come 
Where Panther lies they meet their doom ! 
Till on that spot around him lie 
Ten more, who venture there to die! 



"Ah, Blacksnake! now in death you cling 
To Panther's brother at the spring. 
Sam Brady's mother not to-night 
'Shall die,' nor shall his cottage light 
Your feet, beneath the red sky, now, 
For death has gathered on your brow. 



SAM BRADY. 45 

And you, fierce Panther, with your scream, 
What are the thoughts you think and dream? 
And Great Shot, Muncy, Snow, you sleep 
To know no waking. Squaws may weep 
As I have wept; my father's shade 
May fight the ghosts your souls have made." 

Toward Beach Creek, or Panther Run, 

Then Brady moves. By set of sun, 

With Grove and Lyon, he ascends 

A mountain, and the evening spends 

In watching lights. They see a fire, 

Where Lyon wishes to retire. 

" No," Brady said ; " you'd find that spot 

Not only warm, but keenly hot; 

The braves are hid; who ventures there 

Will walk in spirit through the air !" 

Next day came Vincent; he had seen 
Ten Indians with a downcast mien, 
Limber of joint ; they did not speak, 
But moved toward Young Woman's Creek, 



46 SAM BRADY. 

Where they were gathering for descent, 

To kill and scalp the innocent. 

" You've had a fight," brave Vincent said, 

"And beat them, for they mourned their dead." 

Led on by Brady 'round the hills, 

Where lines of hemlock fringed the rills, 

They shortly spied a party near 

Coming as noiseless as the deer. 

To ambush Brady's party flew : 

Took orders, and their rifles drew. 

They fire! Of fifteen four are dead, 

The rest have shot and quickly fled. 



Vincent and Lyon then go down 
The valley to their native town, 
To rouse their friends to take a stand 
With Foster and his gallant band, 
While Grove and Brady rashly dare 
To brave the camp where Hostiles are. 
Six-score and more they find ; and yells 
And frenzied dance their purpose tells. 



SAM BEADY. 47 

The post is struck, and Brady knows 
The War-Dance now is near its close. 
Prepared for peril and for fight, 
The two haste backward in the night 
To join the Rangers, who must stand 
The shock of battle, now at hand. 



In darkness, fighting half the way, 
From midnight till the break of day, 
They were astonished when they found 
Themselves on Foster's chosen ground : 
Where all his Rangers, hidden, stood 
Behind the great trees of the wood. 
The Indians came; no flag was there, 
But flashing rifles shook the air! 
Now, loud and wild the war-whoop rings, 
And for a tree each Indian springs : 
But they, encircled, cannot hide : 
For Foster's men from every side 
Send shot, while death-cries fill the airj 
Till Indians, breaking in despair, 



48 SAM BRADY. 

Fly back, or battle hand to hand 
With those who in their pathway stand. 
Three Indians, now in sullen mood, 
Fell back where Grove and Brady stood. 
The first they shot, and then they closed 
And killed the next with hasty blows. 
But Grove was down, and as he looked, 
The third one's tomahawk was hooked 
With Brady's ! and these awful foes, 
In anger, like two giants rose. 
The vengeance of each eye and face 
Doomed one to sink in Death's embrace. 
Like lightning, with its dread alarms, 
Swift flew the shadows of their arms ! 
The click of hatchets and of knives 
Intensified this shock of lives! 
Such mighty conflict, 'twixt such men, 
Was never known since war had been ! 
The Indian fell, and Brady's form 
Swayed like an aspen in the storm. 
Backward he staggered to a tree, 
Unnerv'd by his great victory. 




{ Swift flew the shadows of their arms 



Page 48. 



I 



SAM BRADY. 49 

He bled from wounds, but scorned the pain, 
And thirsted for the strife again ! 
'Twas done, and many Indians lay 
Sad trophies of that awful day. 



Ye Homes in all the vales below, 
Ye little dream what tides of woe 
Are stayed. Ah ! well did Brady come, 
Or else each nestling white man's home 
Would smoulder, and its ashes be 
The boast of brutal victory. 



Thus, by a strange evolving fate, 

The Indian's home and great estate 

Were lost in blood. They find a grave 

Not now by Susquehanna's wave, 

But 'round their reservations see 

The inward march of destiny, — 

Like waves of fire, whose crowding flame 

Leaves nothing for them whence it came; 



50 SAM BRADY. 

But warns them that unbending doom 

Will make oblivion their tomb ! 

Still, through their wigwam doors, the shade 

Of Brady mocks the ruin made. 

In gusty chills it shivers 'round 

To shake their lodge-poles to the ground; 

Obliterates the fame of braves, 

And stamps upon their nameless graves. 

Oh, ere the God of all shall come 

To call these wayward children home, 

May not a Saviour's love impart 

That grander halo 'round the heart 

Which changes foe to friend, and lives 

Supremely in the joy it gives? 

And may there not be found some place 

Where this worn remnant of a race 

May choose the arts, and break away 

From the dread thraldom of decay, 

And learn to live, and sharers be 

In man's more hopeful destiny? 



MY EAELY HOME. 

Fkom years of absence, gladly do I come 

Back to the valleys of my early home, 

Where hope was mingled with each rising care, 

Where loving fathers, with their silver'd hair, 

Saluted me, and bless'd me as I played 

With youthful comrades, in the evening shade. 

How did my early, childish fancy plan 

What I would do when I became a man, 

And with unwearied hopefulness aspire 

Renown to win, and fortune to acquire; 

Or dwell upon life's dignity, as seen 

Far off, with slowly passing years between ! 

Oh, simple fancies! little did I know 

How swiftly by those joyful years would go, 

Nor how sincerely from life's toil and pain 

T might desire obscurity again. 

61 



52 MY EARLY HOME. 

What recollections on my soul are cast, 

From out the dreamy splendors of the past, 

As on this mossy ledge of rocks I stand 

To view once more the dear surrounding land! 

For as I step upon this massive stone, 

Where oft in ,youth I came to muse alone, 

I see the peaceful glassy lake below, 

Where cranberries and pitcher-plants yet grow; 

Where pickerel and loon and duck and crane 

And silvered wave and lily-fringe remain. 

I see the hut of moss among the flags, 

The leaky boat, calked up with tow and rags, 

And clust'ring alder, whitening in the breeze, 

Surrounded by a frame of greener trees. 

I trace the outlet down the marshy plain 

Toward the foot-log and the falls again, 

Where old foundation and the rotten sill 

Recall to mind the ancient flour ing-mill ; 

To which the sires, from all the country 'round, 

Brought corn and rye, on horseback, to be ground. 

A century has passed, and oak and pine 

Grow on the spot to mark its long decline. 




" I see the peaceful glassy lake below." 



MY EARLY HOME. 53 

North of the lake, upon the higher land, 
Is where the old brown school-house used to stand, 
Whose open fire-place mock'd the hail and snow 
That struck its windows, many years ago; 
Where spelling-match and sharp debate brought 

down 
The less equipped who sought a school's renown ; 
Whose rostrum shook with tales of "Bloodless 

snow," 
And "Fiery Frank, when Linden's sun was 

low." 
Dear scenes ! how thrilling to my youthful heart ! 
Of which the recess seemed the better part; 
Where mingled study, penitence, and play, 
And weeks of life were crowded in a day. 

I see the vale where rhododendrons grew; 
The buckwheat-fields, 'round which the pigeons flew ; 
The grove of pines, the swale, and orchards where 
The blossoms cast their fragrance on the air. 
I see the fields where oxen ploughed for corn, 

With tips of brass upon each spreading horn; 

5* 



54 MY EARLY HOME. 

The distant hills, where fire would climb in streaks 

To form in lurid crowns upon their peaks ; 

And where the snipe went upward, circling 'round, 

To fall with zigzag motion to the ground ; • 

And night-hawks, swooping downward with a roar, 

Made curves that sent them higher than before; 

Where merry boys would toss the new-mown hay, 

Before the reaper drove the scythe away; 

And where the pumpkins, gathered in the fall, 

Lay heaped against the mossy garden wall. 

Again, I hear the farmer's rattling load . 

Across the valley on the stony road ; 

And taunt of blue-jay, or the noisy crow, 

Repeating echoes of the long ago. 

And as, far off across the winding stream, 

Like flashes from a half-forgotten dream, 

I see the farms, and homes, where oft since then 

The wedding guest and winding-sheet have been, 

And see the cloudy banners of the sky 

Cast drifting shadows on the fields of rye, 

And see the trees with red and yellow stained, 

As if some autumn of my youth remained ; 



MY EARLY HOME. 55 

I feel that here is found, again at last, 
The real presence of a charming past. 



But, as I turn to seek the friendly arms 

Of those whose presence gave it half its charms, 

Amid these homes where loving kindred smiled, 

I find no parent, and I miss the child. 

Few come to place the friendly hand in mine, 

Few eyes draw near with memories to shine, 

Or to recount the pleasures of that day 

When youthful rhyme drove prosy thought away. 

The forms are strange, and in each vacant gaze 

I see the buried life of other days. 

Oh, charming schoolmates, whither do you roam ? 

Why leave me thus a stranger at my home, — 

A pilgrim, seeking for the loved and lost, 

To meet these chilling words and looks of frost ? 

Perhaps you linger in the purple west, 

By new-made altars, and by others bless'd ; 

Or have you fallen in an open grave 

As rain-drops fall upon the ocean's wave, 



56 MY EARLY HOME. 

As cloud precedes the cloud, or leaflets go 
Upon the lifeless bosom of the snow? 
O^ . what realities, what hopes and fears, 
Unwind from out a life of fifty years ! 
What forms and customs sink into decay, 
What actors and what emblems pass away ! 

The ancient peddler, bending 'neath his pack; 
The cobbler, with his kit upon his back ; 
The man who broke the flax, or ran the loom, 
Or drew the splints upon the forming broom; 
The spinster with her ever-murm ? ring wheel, 
Who wound her toil in skeins upon the reel; — 
Have passed away into that silent shade 
Where spectral fancies of the mind are made, 
And now I see them only as they come 
In recollection from beyond the tomb ! 

The forest vast, of hemlock and of pine, 
That fringed the sky with its dim purple line; 
The drumming pheasant, and the wolf's wild howl ; 
The bark of foxes, and the voice of owl ; 



MY EARLY HOME. 57 

The fawn, that fled before the panther's cry, 
And clumsy bear that sometimes shambled by) 
The lumber team that drew the heavy load, 
Or stood with panting breath upon the road; 
The hickory-wood, cut in the darksome swale 
To make the axe-helve or the jointed flail ; 
And crooked sickle, bearded on the edge, 
Or gleaming scythe that whispered in the sedge; — 
Are emblems that our children better know 
In legends of the " Forty years ago !" 
For axe and fire and man's aggressive hand 
Have swept these grand old forests from the land ; 
And growing want and genius have destroyed 
' The simpler arts our ancestors employed. 
I muse upon the shifting track of trade 
And all the changes that the years have made, 
And note the symbols of a bygone day 
Discarded now, and scattered by the way: 
But when I think of the insatiate greed 
Of growing wealth, of party, and of creed, 
And see the ever-rushing flood of pride 
That whirls and eddies like an endless tide, 



58 MY EARLY HOME. 

And find that all these changes of the years 
Have not removed our sorrows nor our tears, 
But, like vast cyclones in their unchecked sway, 
Have only swept our ancient homes away ; 
The question comes, "If man shall ever find, 
In life's fierce battle front, that peace of mind 
Which 'round our ancient hearth-stones used to fall 
In peaceful benedictions over all?" 

I turn for comfort to that dearer place 

Once lit by smiles from my own mother's face; 

And by this wall, beneath this apple-tree, 

Whose shadows drifted 'round and over me 

In dear old days of sinless youth, I stand 

As one who lingers in a fairy-land. 

Swift years have pass'd since first my raptured 

sight 
Beheld it crown'd with fruit or blossoms white. 
Its ancient top now indicates decay, 
But time, my hair has sprinkled too, with gray. 
Beneath these branches, in this charming shade, 
How often have I sat and mused and played, 



MY EARLY HOME. 59 

And watched the birds, in whose soft throats were 

born 
The music of the evening and the morn ! 

\ 
'Twas here my fatner, and his young bride, came 
To build an altar, and inspire the flame 
Of grateful incense to that God whose might 
Rules earth, and shines from every star of night ! 
What plans and prospects in this garden grew 
When life's alluring toils to them were new ! 
The future grew in splendor day by day, 
And golden visions charmed them on their way. 
But vain were all their dreams; on yonder hill 
Their forms now slumber, side by side and still. 
And marble now, of hopes by him or her, 
Stands as the sad and lone interpreter. 

The dear old house in which we dwelt is gone ; 
The vandal hand has left but walls of stone, 
Torn down and crumbling, but to me still 

dear, 
For lo ! the ancient hearth-stone yet is here. 



60 MY EARLY HOME. 

Why should I stay the willing tears that start 
Beside this early anchor of my heart? 
Oh, sacred hearth-stone, ever shalt thou be 
The very centre of the world to me : 
For it was here that first upon me came 
The flashes of my being and my name ! 
I yet in memory can see that fire 
'Round which we drew, with satisfied desire. 
Each curling wreath of rising smoke was new, 
As, splitting on the crane, it climbed the flue. 
And I can see the steam jet from the wood, 
Against the tongs that in the corner stood; 
The aged sire, with pigeons for decoy, 
Who told us tales of trapping while a boy; 
And sleeping dog that dreamed about the chase, 
Barked in his throat and twitched his legs and face. 
And I can hear the cricket's song that lent 
A soothing calmness to our sweet content. 
What cared we then for old cathedral chimes, 
For bauble crowns, or tumult of the times? 
They brought us neither envy nor alarm, 
.No thrill of soul to terrorize or charm ; 







' I yet in memory can see that fire 



Tage 6 



MY EARLY HOME. 61 

But in the fireside glow, and friendly face, 
We found the sweet communion of the place. 
I yet can hear the milkmaid's morning song, 
And see that best of fathers, lingering long 
Ere he from such endearments turned away 
To meet the cares and duties of the day. 
Kind fathers may have been, and yet may be, 
But none seem'd half so kind or good, to me. 

The shed yet stands, with mossy eaves, a prey 

To all the energies of swift decay ; 

But yonder, where the grass grows fresh and 

green, 
The well-filled barn no longer shall be seen. 
My mind recalls it, with its double door, 
Its great deep mow, its stalls and threshing-floor; 
Its heaps of corn, whose red ears filled the mind 
With some vague hope of pleasure, undefined; 
Its count of bushels, scratched upon the board ; 
Its secret nests, where Easter-eggs were stored ; 
Its beams above, from which in boisterous play 
We plunged with somersaults upon the hay. 



62 MY EARLY HOME. 

Alas! our naked feet no more shall fall, 
Upon their way to school, along this wall, 
JSTor press the daisies in the dust again, 
For neither home, nor school, nor path remain ! 
The swallow comes no more to make its round; 
The rose has died from the neglected ground ; 
The bee, alone, hums in the silent air, 
A requiem for sainted ones who were ! 

Oh, who shall lift from off my heart this spell? 
Who can describe it, or what pen can tell 
Of these emotions that around me flow, 
As by these broken walls I stand, to know 
That Time, the busy reaper of our years, 
Has left me only memory and tears? 
They are not tears such as our sorrows bring : 
From deeper fountains of the soul they spring; 
From youthful hope, from joy, from love, from woe, 
From every impulse of a life, they flow ! 

Give me not wealth, no name nor palace grand, 
To stir the praise, or envy of the land, 



MY EARLY HOME. 63 

No tyrant's sword, no cruel monarch's throne, 
But rather let me linger here, alone, 
To hold communion with these memories 
Which trace my mother's spirit to the skies ; 
Which through the vista of the bygone years 
Recall her love, her tenderness and tears! 
Let marble shafts their sacred vigils keep 
On yonder hill where friends and kindred sleep. 
Strange forms may pass, inquiring eyes may turn 
To read cold words, that in my bosom burn : 
But let no son of pride, no jester roam 
Among these ruins of my early home; 
For here my soul, by sacred impulse led, 
Would stay to think, not of the cold and dead, 
But of the ones who were, and yet shall be 
Joint heirs in everlasting life, with me. 



THE PEASANT'S SON. 

Near the shadows of a mountain, 

Close to dell and dale and fountain, 

On an eminence, commanding 

Miles of pleasant view, was standing 

The neat cottage of a peasant. 

Fox and jay-bird, hare and pheasant, 

Had been comrades of his childhood, 

And still shared with him that wildwood. 

Kind of heart, his neighbors found him, 

Friendly was the air around him, 

For the shocks of state, or nation, 

Seldom reached his habitation. 

Neither war, nor pride, nor fashion 

Ever changed his peace to passion. 

Blest was he, of Earth and Heaven, 

For to him a son was given, 

From whose face came forth inquiring 

Soul-light, trustful and inspiring. 
64 



THE PEASANT'S SON. 65 

Soon this child, from hearth -stone straying, 

In the meadow-paths was playing; 

Or with light feet wandering over 

Mandrake dells and winter clover; 

Where the red leaf, like an ember, 

Lit the wood-lands in September ; 

Or, in shades where brooks were flowing, 

And the golden-rod was growing, 

He stood musing; oft intently, 

Midst the wilds that whispered gently 

Words which finer spirits only 

Can translate; as down the lonely 

Slopes that breathe with thrilling story 

Sank the red sun in its glory. 



Nearly up to manhood grew he, 

Nothing but contentment knew he, 

Till there came from town a Maiden 

With the charms of beauty laden, 

High in rank, who, sweetly smiling, 

Asked of him, in tones beguiling, 
e 6* 



3 THE PEASANT'S SON. 

"Are there ferns, and moss, and flowers, 

Growing in your mountain bowers ? 

Think you evil would betide me, 

Or would you consent to guide me 

To the ivy and arbutus, 

Which you think perhaps might suit us?" 

Skilled was he at toil and farming, 
But to have a maid, so charming, 
In such tones, half of affection, 
Claim his honor and protection, 
Caused his manly heart to flutter; 
And he scarce found words to utter, 
"That the woods were full of flowers, 
Full of glens and charming bowers, 
And that every mountain treasure, 
There, awaited her good pleasure." 

Never till that bright spring morning 
Did the green moss look so charming; 
Never did those flowing fountains 
Leap so gayly down the mountains. 







" Skilled was he at toil and farming." 



Page 6 



THE PEASANT'S SON. 67 

Never did arbutus, trailing, 
Send a fragrance so unfailing 
On the air; and never, never, 
Did time fly so fast to sever 
That companionship. On parting, 
Somehow she forgot while starting, 
In her half-regretful pleasure, 
All her moss and floral treasure; — 
Did not think of them; but, musing, 
Thought how often in our choosing 
Do we take some shining semblance 
Which to worth, bears small resemblance. 

And he stood, with new thoughts laden, 
As in dreams, and watched the Maiden, 
Till at last her absence found him 
With her moss and ferns around him. 

She was riding and regretting, 
Not the jewel, but the setting. 
" Were he but in culture's dressing," 
Said she, " he would prove a blessing 



68 THE PEASANT'S SON. 

To the world, and would, in merit, 

Far surpass those who inherit 

Fame and fortune without labor, 

Or wed both from some rich neighbor.'' 

That night, briefless Young Attorney 
Found her wearied by her journey, — 
Not inclined to conversation, — 
Hating caste and pomp and station. 
Freedom's impulse, in her rising, 
Filled her soul with this surmising : 
« Words of love are often spoken 
By a heart coerced and broken : 
Purchased by Gold's incantation; 
Stolen from Love's habitation ; 
But the struggling one it carries 
Into gilded, heartless marriage, 
Lives to find her false pretences 
Cursed by all her better senses." 

Why she sat, so long that evening, 
Half rejoicing and half grieving, 



THE PEASANT'S SON. 69 

Secret thoughts the while confessing 
Of some far-off, hoped-for blessing; 
Why this promised correlation 
Of extremes in social station, 
None can give an explanation. 
; Tis a law old as creation ; 
Like the law which brings the mating 
Of the birds; or brings the hating 
Of two rivals; or the growing 
Of desire, without our knowing 
Why it grows; or like the forces 
Which draw rivers in their courses. 



Next day, to his hard fate bowing, 
Went the Young Man to his ploughing; 
Round and round, but scarce discerning 
That the severed turf was turning. 
"Will she," thought he, "when her fingers 
Touch the keys where music lingers, 
Hear the wild voice of the fountains? 
Or the wind breathe from the mountains? 



70 THE PEASANT'S SON. 

How shall hearts, with inclination, 
Bridge the chasm of rank and station? 
Not her sinking, but my rising, — 
Though the distance seems surprising 
'Twixt us,— shall, because I love her, 
Find me yet in lore above her." 
"Ought to be/'— Life's law fulfilling — 
May be "Is," if hearts are willing. 



In the still unfinished furrow 
Stops the plough, for he, to-morrow, 
Led by unrestrained ambition, 
Starts for knowledge and position. 
But his father, dumb with wonder, 
Queries what his son sees yonder 
In the schools, where hard, perplexing 
Problems are forever vexing. 
And thus muses : " While pretending 
That his toil my own was ending, 
Now he leaves me, to the dreary 
Cares of life, when I am weary! 



THE PEASANT'S SON. 7l 

Sleepless moments, without number, 
Guard our children while they slumber; 
And the Lord no doubt intended, 
When our days are well-nigh ended, 
That our grown-up boys, with blessing, 
Should repay our long caressing. 
But as cares from us are lifted, 
They, by breath of fame, are drifted 
From their natural employment — 
Sometimes from a life's enjoyment — 
To professions overcrowded, 
And are oft like beggars shrouded. 
Some young doctors, poorer growing, 
Might do better far by mowing; 
And sometimes a stricken brother 
Might have more chance to recover. 
Many merchants, bland and bowing, 
Might make more if they were ploughing. 
Many lawyers, so alarming, 
Might obtain more fees by farming; 
And the fleece, by them exacted, 
Be from real lambs extracted. 



72 THE PEASANT'S SON. 

And some servants of the Master 
Might get sheaves, and get them faster, 
If their worn-out congregations 
Were exchanged for small plantations." 

Thus the father mused and muttered, 
But no words dissuading uttered 
To his son; for, though repining, 
Still he felt his heart inclining 
To the hope and fond surmising 
That his boy, perhaps, by rising 
Up through labor and sedateness, 
Might yet rank with human greatness. 

"This is home, why seek another?" 
Asked his half-imploring mother. 
" You our fortune must inherit ; 
Frugal life alone hath merit; 
Fame is false, — its sea is chartless, — 
All the world is cold and heartless; 
And if evil should betide you, 
Who would bend in love beside you? 



TEE PEASANT'S SON. 73 

Can it be a trifling matter 

That our family should scatter? 

You must say, my darling, whether 

We at last shall rest together 

'Neath the willows. It would grieve us 

Evermore if you should leave us." 



"Do not go/' his comrades pleaded; 
"Never was your presence needed 
More than now. On roads deserted, 
Or by fields to copse converted, 
Soon the red thorn-apples guiding, 
Will disclose where grouse are hiding; 
And to trees whose tops are dying 
The wild pigeons will be flying. 
So raccoons, as you remember, 
Pillage cornfields in September; 
Where we may arrange our boasting 
While the ears of corn are roasting. 
Failures we may weave by story 
Into feats of sportive glory : 



74 THE PEASANT'S SON. 

For a license to our wishing 
Goes with hunting, and with fishing. 
And when bright girls, half in daring, 
Swing and drop the apple-paring, 
To see whose initial chances 
To be theirs, in social dances, 
Why should you in mental anguish 
Over books and problems languish? 
Stay and be our royal neighbor, 
For serene and light the labor 
Of the man whose aspirations 
Shun the care and lore of nations." 



And so plead the young and charming 
Daughters of this land of farming: 
"Do not spurn your early calling; 
For when painted leaves are falling, 
And when 'round the wood fires glowing 
Mirth and sparkling wit are flowing, 
You may join us; and through passes 
Homeward guide us country lasses, 



THE PEASANT'S SON. 75 

While the katydids and fountains 
Rasp and murmur from the mountains; 
Over roads where none shall meet us 
In the shadows that secrete us, — 
Where our converse, all unbroken, 
May from out the heart be spoken. 
Here our lot was cast together; 
Do not leave us; do not sever 
Link and tie, by thus forsaking 
Sympathies our hearts are making." 



Next week, as the coach-wheels rumbled, 
And the inmates talked and grumbled 
Jokingly of roads and weather, 
Aimlessly for miles together, 
There among them, sad and lonely, 
Sat the youth, whose thoughts were only 
Of the future, which should find him 
Severed from the life behind him, — 
From the lanes and brooks and wild wood, 
From the scenes and friends of childhood. 



76 THE PEASANT'S SON 

His good mother ne'er consented 

To his going, but lamented, 

Wishing ever to recall him 

Ere some evil should befall him. 

When there came a sudden singing 

In her ears, like far chimes ringing; 

Or some dog, in darkness prowling, 

Roused her by his mournful howling; 

Or the death-watch in the ceiling 

Took her thoughts from prayer, while kneeling; 

Each she feared might be a token 

Of his death, by spirits spoken. 



But, in schools, where wise men fashion 
Images to life and passion, 
All eyes turned to this untiring 
Youth, whose longing and aspiring 
Mind found in its new employment 
Both the head's and heart's enjoyment; 
For, in grade, he soon was standing 
Foremost in his class, — commanding 



THE PEASANT'S SON. 77 

That pre-eminence which traces 
Wisdom to its hidden places. 

Mind is born. No priest nor poet, 
Judge nor Solon, can bestow it; — 
Linked with toil, it may awaken 
Financiers, and streets be shaken 
By the tread of some defiant 
Peasant's son, whose self-reliant 
Soul has made itself the master, 
Reaping profit from disaster. 
Such, of forces, take dimensions, 
And evolve Earth's great inventions, 
Master fame and tame the surging 
Sophistries that men are urging. 

Does the Maid, whose restless fingers 
Touch the keys where music lingers, 
See this gallant youth, rewarded 
By the rank to him accorded? 
Every step that he has taken 

Has but served anew to waken 

7* 



78 THE PEASANT'S SON. 

Her delight and admiration; 
He has bridged the chasm of station, 
Wrought from " Ought to be" the needed 
"Is" for which two lives have pleaded. 

Back beside the shaded mountains, 

To the dancing, laughing fountains, 

They return to see the bowers 

And regather ferns and flowers. 

Pheasants cross their path to meet them,— 

Ruffle up their necks to greet them; 

And the blue-jays, all admiring, 

Lift their feathered caps, desiring 

To applaud the pleasing sequel 

Of that love which made them equal. 



THE CENTENARIAN. 

"I hear strange bells, my daughter," 
Said one bent down with years: 

" The new church chimes," she answered, 
"Are what Grandfather hears." 

"And is the old bell silenced," 

AskM he, "and cast away? 
Like old men and old customs, 

Has it, too, had its day? 

"New chimes; ah yes! and whistles, 

And trains and iron drums, 
And rush and roar and clangor 

From every quarter comes! 

"But well do I remember," 

Continuing he said, 

"When all these hills and valleys 

With forests were o'erspread ; 

79 



80 THE CENTENARIAN. 

" When here and there a hunter's 
Log house stood by the way, 

Hung 'round with traps and antlers, 
And chinked with splints and clay; 

"When voice of wolf, or panther, 
Of wild-cat, fox, or bear, 

Or war-whoop of the savage, 
Came ringing on the air; 

"When wild azaleas blossom'd, 
To paint the oaklands red; 

With thrushes in the thickets, 
And jay-birds overhead; 

"When butternuts and grape-vines 
Bent o'er the valley road, 

And in the hollow chestnut 
The squirrels found abode; 

"When sumach, oak, and maple 
Grew red at touch of frost, 

And 'neath the leafy carpet 
The wagon's track was lost; 




' ; The wild geese went southward, wailing through." 

Page 81. 



THE CENTENARIAN. 81 

"When from the Beech-nut Country 

Great flocks of pigeons flew, 
And from the Lakes the wild geese 

Went southward, wailing through ; — 

"Ranged in a form for flying 

Much like the letter V, 
With some old trusted pilot v 

To guide them to the sea. 

" And well do I remember 

How, then, we used to call 
On girls, who loved the splendors 

And glories of the fall; 

"Who grew up near the hawthorns 

And sumachs and wild-plums ; 
Where unsuspecting beauty 

To its perfection comes; 

" And who, with gathered garlands, 
Could shine in homespun dress, 

And charm their rustic neighbors 
With grace and loveliness, 

/ 



82 THE CENTENARIAN. 

"With such we sat, at evening, 

To see the moon go by, 
And cut its way through cloudlets 

That drifted on the sky; 

"And won the mother's favor 

By staying late at night, 
Lest beast or hostile Indian 

Should come to give affright. 

"We then attended preaching 
With parents, babes, and wives, 

And took our flint-lock rifles 
Along to guard our lives; 

" And if some wolf or wild-cat 
Came venturing too near, 

We shot him, though 'twas Sunday; 
And sometimes shot a deer 

"When they would come to tempt us, 

Presuming on the day 
To banter our religion, 

By standing in the way. 



THE CENTENARIAN. 83 

" Perhaps you'd scarce believe it, 

But our good preachers then 
Could plough, or hunt the panther, 

And guide the souls of men. 

"And when Death took a neighbor, 
We wept with those who wept, 

And oft returned in silence 

To weep where neighbors slept. 

"You were too young to know it, 

But when your mother died, 
The preacher, and the children, 

And all the people cried. 

"Hearts, then, drew close together, 
And strong was friendship's chain; 

Such trust, I fear, will never 
Be known on earth again. 

" In those dear days, our labor 

Made seasons quickly pass; 
We then used hooks for reaping, 

And scythes for cutting grass. 



84 THE CENTENARIAN. 

"We ploughed with wooden mould-boards; 

By hand we carded wool; 
Had wheels, and looms, and spindles ; 

And quaint old books at school. 

" We dress'd in buckskin garments 

Against the winter's blast, 
And wore thick boots, form'd over 

The cobbler's home-made last. 

"We then used flails for threshing, 

And planted with a hoe; 
Our old express of oxen 

Was sure, if it was slow : 

"And when at the log tavern 

We cut the straw and fed, 
And ate our meal at evening, 

And found a rural bed, 

"We slept as few sleep nowadays, 
And dreamed of men whose wills 

Wrote ' Freedom' on the valleys, 
And stamped it on the hills. 



THE CENTENARIAN. 85 

"Then no one thought of coal-oil, 

Or fuel from the mine; 
But all the swaying forests 

Were plumed with oak and pine. 

"And when the snow went hissing 

And drifting 'round the door, 
The light of rich pine fagots 

Fell brightly on the floor. 

"We then went out to battle 
With flint-lock, drum, and fife; 

And on our country's altar 
Each hero placed his life. 

"They say the style of warfare 
Has changed of late, — that men 

Fight at long range, and seldom 
With swords, as we fought then. 

"And now they say machinery 
Plants corn and sows the grain, 

And cuts the wheat and barley, 
And threshes it again. 



86 THE CENTENARIAN. 

"I cannot comprehend it, — 
The very darkness seems 

To be alive with turmoil, 
To interrupt my dreams. 

" And swaying signal-lanterns, 
And head-lights of the trains, 

Come curving 'round, with thunder, 
From off the distant plains. 

"But why are there so many 

In motion to and fro? 
When I first took a journey 

The people all could go 

" In stages through the country ; 

And all who travelled then, 
For days, might not have numbered 

A half a hundred men. 

" And tell me of these presses, 
So fast, that print the news; 

And telephones, the people 
Of late begin to use; 



THE CENTENARIAN. 87 

"And cables for transmitting, 

From cities far away, 
And from the distant nations, 

The news of ev'ry day. 

" When I was young the printer 

Used a Columbian press, 
Was editor, type-setter, 

And pressman too, I guess. 

"To get the vote of counties 

And news from every State, 
When we ran Andrew Jackson, 

We had to wait, and wait 

"A half a month, I'm certain; 

But now results are sent, 
You say, before 'tis midnight 

Across the continent. 

"They say the honest yeoman, 
Who toils or guides the plough, 

Is somehow not. the equal 
Of the idle people now. 



88 THE CENTENARIAN. 

"There was a time when honor 
And virtue made the man ; 

Before men, after millions, 
And pride and fashion, ran; 

"Before the Sunday papers, 

Or Sunday trains, were known; 

Or greed had bent the people 
To morals of its own. 

"I hate these innovations, 
And do not wish to dwell 

Where pride can even banish 
Our good old Christian bell ! 

"I want no chimes, to mock me 
When I shall come to die; 

Nor pomp of secret orders, 
Nor firemen marching by. 

" But lay me with my kindred, 

And hide my form away 
From crime, that shocks the midnight, 

And greed that claims the day. 



THE CENTENARIAN. 89 

" There's only one thing left me ; 

One thought that comfort gives, — 
One changeless truth, — the knowledge 

That my Redeemer lives. 

"And, oh, what joy it brings me! 

For 'tis the same, I know, 
As when it blessed my mother 

A hundred years ago I" 



8* 



THE OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE. 

Dear is this old deserted road, 
Down past the spring and glen, 

Half chok'd with alder, where my feet 
So many times have been; 

It leads me, past the daisy dell, 
To where the School- House stood; 

Whose now neglected ground, I find, 
Is growing up with wood ! 

The wild-rose and the thistle thrive, 
And bristling hawthorns stand 

Where schoolmates came, who now, alas, 
Are scattered o'er the land. 

The sloping ground is sloping still, 

And slanting sunbeams fall 

On withered leaves, where once we play'd 

Our games of goal and ball. 
90 



THE OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE. 91 

And still, beside the pathway, lies 

That same old mossy stone, 
On whose rough edge the hornets built 

Their dreaded paper cone; 

Where merriment and laughter 'rose, 

As forty rushing feet 
Sought safety, when their buzzing wings 

Commanded the retreat. 

Out yonder, where the dogwood blooms, 

Is where we chose the hound, 
Whose bay was heard, as playfully 

He chased the school around. 

And in yon bright May-apple dell, 

Where green umbrellas grew, 
Is where we played, unmindful of 

How fast the moments flew; 

Or stayed too long, perhaps, to find 
The chestnuts plump and brown, 

When Autumn's frost had stung the burs, 
And winds had brought them down. 



92 THE OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE. 

Oh, I recall the discipline, 

The ruler and the rod ; 
The " Three great B's," the broken laws, 

And "Thorny paths" we trod. 

But who shall bring our truant forms, 
From play-ground or from wood, 

Again to range before the desk 
At which the Master stood? 

Or bring that marvel of the past, 

With spectacles of brass, 
Again to scan the swaying line 

Of every forming class, — 

Unconscious of the note of love, 
Which mischief-lovers wrote 

To some dear school-girl, rudely rhymed, 
And pin-hooked to his coat ? 

Or who recount our countless joys, 
Or sing the songs we sung, 

As, joining hand in hand, we 'round 
In dizzy circles swung? 




' Fancy loves to bring it back in place again." 

Page 93. 



THE OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE. 93 

The ancient chestnut-tree is dead, 

The pines have larger grown; 
The oaks have lengthened out their arms 

Above these walls of stone. 

Some rotten logs yet mark the spot 
Where, sheltered from the snow, 

The axemen piled the winter wood, 
Now forty years ago. 

A man, whose heart was cold with greed 

And dead to past renown, 
To make a paltry wagon-shed, 

Has torn our School-House down! 

But oh, my fancy loves to bring 

It back in place again; 
With gable, chimney, roof, and door, 

And splintered window-pane ; 

And calls to mind the cry, "Ante," 

And "Over," as the ball 
Shot back and forth above the roof, 

In answer to the call; 



94 THE OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE. 

And sees the fire gleam, when the storm 

Grew envious of our joys; 
And mischief sparkled from the eyes 

Of happy girls and boys, — 

Of boys who swelled the whisper 'round, 
And quite forgot their books, 

Till that old Master turned on them 
His fierce, inquiring looks. 

Where are they now? those gallant lads, 

Who always did their best, 
Upon the play-ground, eacli to raise 

His voice above the rest; — 

Whose tireless longings, ever came, 

To fill the forming mind 
With some vague hope of eminence, 

Or pleasure undefined ! 

Did we have jealousies, or feel 
Some childish grievance then? 

How has the hand of Time erased 
It from our hearts, as men ! 



THE OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE. 95 

And where are now those charming girls, 

So fall of sportive glee ; 
Whose laughing eyes behind their hats 

Were full of mystery? 

They were as gentle as the birds 

That sang among the trees; 
As bright as hope, and yet as deep 

As the unfathomed seas. 

My fancy sees them all, again, 

Upon these walks of stone, 
Conspiring for some childish sport, 

In gentle undertone. 

They come from distant Western homes, 

From cities and from farms; 
And grown-up daughters 'round them press 

With children in their arms ! 

And where are now those good old books 
On whose first leaves were penn'd, 

The warning or the rude request : 
" Steal not this book, my friend"? 



96 THE OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE. 

And many other marks, that youth 

Had made with little art, 
To wake in after-years the love 
Of some reviewing heart. 

Oh, as I listen, to my ear 

The very silence brings 
A murmur, till I seem to hear 

The sound of silken wings ! 

Is it the Master, come, perhaps, 
From realms of joy and song, 

To beat again upon the sash 
"With ruler loud and long? 

And shall those scatter'd forms, once more 

In his old roll-call share? 
They shall at least to Fancy's ear 

Make answer from the air. 

Most sacred are these pensive thoughts 
That greet us from the past; 

And welcome, thrice, this rising wood 
That shall its leaflets cast 



THE OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE. 97 

To shelter this enchanting ground, 
Where schoolmates used to meet, 

From profanation by the tread 
Of strange, unhallowed feet; 

For at each gust the whisp'riug leaves 

Kepeat dear names to me, 
And all the loved ones of my youth 

Crowd 'round, in memory. 



AROUND THE SUN. 



Another journey is begun, 

Through shoreless space, around the sun ; 

No heated axle, break, or jar 

Disturbs the Earth's fast-rushing ear, 

As speeding on and coursing far. 

It leaves along its wondrous track 

The stations of the zodiac. 

On schedule time, precise, we near 

The finished circuit of the year, 

And seasons, as a sequence, bless 

Our lives with change and loveliness; 

And nameless joys, upon us, press 

The faint review of what is done 

Upon our journey 'round the sun. 
98 



AROUND THE SUN 99 

II. 

The swaying hemlock and the larch 
Bend to the passion winds of March, — 
To winds that wake a wild surprise, 
Proclaiming from the troubled skies 
That Spring is born, that Winter dies; 
That Snow must for a season pass, 
And lift its mantle from the grass : — 
High winds, that eddy, rush, and roar 
From mountain crag to ocean's shore, 
That turn the hawk upon his wing, 
That make the great pines sough and swing, 
And from palmetto forests bring 
The foe of ice, through hedge and lane, 
Till no white footprint shall remain. 

in. 

The now rejected hail and sleet 

Has vanished from the field and street; 

And down the misty sky again 

The clouds, like ships upon the main, 



100 AROUND THE SUN 

Sail out above the watered plain, 
Ordained by Time, at last, to bring 
The vernal wardrobe of the spring. 
Aslant the dreamy, dripping hills 
Come dancing, foaming, rippling rills; 
And angry brooks and rivers roar, 
Full to their banks from shore to shore, 
To bear the drift, and raft whose oar 
Bathes in the Winter's tears, and gleams 
Above the sparkle of the streams. 

IV. 

Who at the death of Winter grieves, 
When peeps arbutus from the leaves 
With petal, vine, and modest bloom, 
To fill the air with sweet perfume, — 
Inviting birds of song and plume 
Back where the tassel'd willow throws 
Its down in mockery of snows ? 
Who sheds a tear or feels regret 
When April brings the violet, 



AROUND THE SUN 101 

And alder by the stream appears 
With tender leaves, or when one hears 
The brooks re-sing the song of years; 
Or when, with op'ning palms of green, 
Wild-cabbage by the marsh is seen? 



Or who laments when from the bog, 

Or from the smooth half-sunken log, 

The noisy, moonlit, piping toads 

From their amphibious abodes 

Send music o'er the wayside roads; 

Or when the snipe on spiral wing 

Adds to the heraldry of Spring; 

Or pheasants in the thickets drum, 

Or to the hollow oak-trees come 

Woodpeckers, with their trilling sound, 

To animate the fields around; 

Or when in bordering woods are found 

Azaleas with their fragrant bloom 

To rob the forests of their gloom? 
9* 



102 AROUND THE SUN 

VI. 

Dear fickle April, like a maid, 
Half resolute, yet half afraid, 
With warmth and cold, and sun and rain, 
You charm but to repel again, 
Yet cast a joy o'er hill and plain ! 
Your very tears have pow'r to start 
The buds of hope in every heart; 
Your whims upon the winds are hung, 
And by the birds your songs are sung. 
The murmur of unnumbered trees, 
The hum of beetles and of bees, 
And Nature wading to her knees 
Through orchards, bring your lovely guest 
Bright May, in all her glory dress'd. 

vn. 
With honeysuckles in her hair, 
May claps her leafy hands in air : 
She is the foster-queen of birds, 
She gives the pasturage to herds 
And blesses with unspoken words; 



AROUND THE SUN 103 

She bounds her glory by the seas, 
And hangs the green fruit on the trees; 
She wakes the minstrelsy of morn, 
And resurrects the planted corn. 
And when the tempest in the sky 
Goes thundering and flashing by, 
Wrestling with woods and growing rye, 
She paints her bow, with colors warm, 
In many tints behind the storm. 



She can the young and aged draw, 

She scorns Theology and Law, 

And leads us to the forest wild; 

She makes the man again a child, 

And wooes with words so sweet and mild 

That her surpassing smiles appear 

Like supreme triumphs of the year. 

Oh, often in her leafy gown 

Has Cupid hid, and when the town 

Sent youth and beauty out to share, 



104 AROUND THE SUN 

With butterflies, the balmy air, 
Away from want and free from care, 
His well-aimed, silent shafts have sped 
To subjugate the heart and head. 



IX. 



The chipmunks look with cunning eyes, 

The rabbits on their haunches rise, 

As lovers forth in couplets go 

With measured step serene and slow. 

What is not spoken none shall know; 

For, from their path, the grouse has sprung, 

Beneath the brown leaves hides her young, 

And fluttering among the trees, 

With all her mock infirmities, 

She lures them off, until she sees 

The safety of her infant brood, 

Then flies triumphant through the wood, 

And leaves the lovers with a sense 

Of baffled, beaten innocence! 



AROUND THE SUN ' 105 

X. 

The children spin upon the grass 
To see the trees around them pass, — 
Stand on their heads to see the town 
With all its church-spires upside down, 
And mimic priest and mock the clown, 
Or wait to hear the fathers tell 
The tales that children love so well, — 
Of sportsmen in a broader sense 
With all their droll experience ; — 
Of how the rural children play, 
Of what they do and what they say, 
Of fish caught in the brook or bay, — 
Till each encoring, childish brain 
Would have the world repeat again. 

XI. 

Our lovely guest departs too soon, 
But leaves her charming sister June, 
To press the daisies with her feet; 
To fill with grain the rye and wheat, 
And clothe young birds in their retreat. 



106 AROUND THE SUN. 

She hangs her ripen'd roses low 

On boughs that beckon to and fro, 

And tempts the boys with cherries red 

And with the wild strawberry-bed. 

She starts the reapers, here and there, 

To chant the ploughman's answered prayer; 

And songs of plenty fill the air, 

As down the great celestial halls 

The shadow of her spirit falls. 



XII. 

July throws wide the great barn-door, 
And wheels upon the threshing-floor 
Go rumbling, as the mow receives 
A golden line of gathered sheaves; 
And swallows from beneath the eaves 
Dart out above the teams that pass 
With heavy loads of grain and grass. 
The " Harvest Home" is here again : 
Men sing the songs of garner'd grain, 
And pigeons o'er the stubble sail, 




'^■ 5 !f^I|4=|: : . - ; 






" July throws wide the great barn-door.' 



AROUND THE SUN 107 

And squirrels scamper on the rail, 
And whirring upward goes the quail, 
As, past the fields bereft of rye, 
The noisy youth from school go by. 



XIII. 

Now August, with her splendid moon, 
Turns dusky night almost to noon, — 
A moon whose shuttle interweaves 
A silv'ry light among the leaves. 
And tips with gold the mossy eaves, 
And dances on the velvet grass 
As trees sway in the winds that pass. 
From off the near surrounding hills 
Come sweet the songs of whippoorwills; 
And crickets, from the withered lea, 
Like murmurs from a distant sea, 
Bring sleepy chimes of song to me. 
The glories of July and June 
Are centred in the August moon. 



108 AROUND THE SUN. 

XIV. 

Oh, August is herself alone, 

Her inclinations are her own. 

Just as some girl with silken hair 

Bends o'er her doll in earnest prayer, 

And sighs as though great hopes were there; 

Or as the playful kittens chase 

The rope of yarn, with cunning face, 

And gambol with the creeping thread, 

Although the mother cat lies dead; 

So August, with distinctive art, 

Plays, on the stage of time, a part 

That fills with joy the hopeful heart, 

And tints her fruit, by strange design, 

On berry-bush and tree and vine. 

XV. 

September, when the farmer sows 
Or drills his wheat and rye in rows, 
Is here; and now the sound of flails, 
Or squirrels nutting in the swales, 
Or jays' distinctive cry prevails. 



AROUND THE SUN. 109 

Sometimes across the hill or stream 
The traction-engine jolts by steam; 
And late at night, when other fowls 
Are still, is heard the voice of owls. 
Now falls the fruit upon the ground, 
And creaking cider-mills go 'round, 
And in the rural home is found 
That joy and peace, and mirth and health, 
Which blesses more than boundless wealth. 



XVI. 

Triangled beech-nuts downward fall, 

And chestnuts rattle on the wall, 

While out upon the tasselFd plain 

Mondamin wrestles once again, 

And huskers take his golden grain. 

Beneath the cold light of the moon 

Boys hunt the fox, or the raccoon; 

Or from the apple-parings go 

When midnight stars are getting low. 

Oh, youth and beauty ! how they meet 
10 



110 AROUND THE SUN. 

To mock the hours with flying feet, 
Or whisper on the rural street, 
When bright October fires the brain 
With rounded mirth and bliss again ! 



xvn. 

The marmot seeks his winter's nest, 

The sky grows paler in the west, 

And robins sit w T ith plaintive cry 

To bid the North a sad good-bye, 

As snowflakes circle in the sky. 

The splendid forest, stained with gold, 

Grows wrinkled, wasted, wan and old; 

Its leaves of yellow and of red 

Are falling, faded pale and dead: 

But shall our hearts within us fail 

Because November's sifting hail 

Comes rattling from the frowning gale ? 

No, let the fires gleam bright and warm, 

Be brave and breast the winter's storm. 



AROUND THE SUN Ill 

XVIII. 

Storms do not always bring us gloom; 
Some storms roll back a threatened doom, 
Like that which veiled the sun and sky, 
And quaked the world in passing by, 
When God, from off His throne on high, 
Linked love to every human heart ! 
Oh, it was but the mortal part 
That cried upon the cruel tree, 
Once, "Why hast thou forsaken me?" 
Ring out the bells! be of good cheer, 
Let Christmas carols crown the year, 
For He, who wrought salvation here, 
Has filled the bracing winter's blast 
With joy and hope and peace at last! 



BACK TO MY GLEN. 

"While yet a youth, I wanderM 

Within this quiet glen, 
Ere I had met the turmoil 

And "madding crowds" of men. 

Not in artistic circles, 

Nor systematic lines, 
Had Nature set these hemlocks 

And drooping firs and vines; 

But with the seeds that scatter 
From forests through the air, 

In wild and wanton freedom, 
Her hand had placed them there. 

I knew my aged kindred, 

Like autumn leaves, would fade 

Before its whisp'ring branches 
Would fold their tents of shade, 



112 




s ~4# 



" I wander'd within this quiet glen." 



Page 112. 



BACK TO MY GLEN. 113 

But I was young and hopeful, 

And with ambitious arms 
I reached into the future 

To clasp a world of charms. 

And boldly did I challenge 

The frowning toil and strife 
That meet us at the gateway, 

On every path of life. 

Since then, through years of conflict, 

Out in the world IVe been ; 
Amidst the wild ambitions 

And sharp intrigues of men. 

I've shared their zeal, and joined them 

Upon the noisy street; 
And struggled on for fortune 

With busy brain and feet. 

IVe heard "Reformers" clamor 

For change, with bold address, 

When few around suspected 

Their hidden selfishness. 
h 10* 



114 BACK TO MY GLEN. 

IVe heard, in metaphysics, 
What none could understand, 

Pronounced, by those around me, 
To be sublimely grand ! 

And read the Poet's rhyming 
Of murder and of war, 

And wondered what the gallows 
Could be intended for. 

I've seen the youth, who managed 
His fortune to disburse, 

Smile on the rich young heiress 
To win her heart and purse; 

And heard him later, slander 
Her and her parents too, 

Because from spendthrift fingers 
Their fortunes they withdrew. 

IVe seen the man who treated 
What others knew with scorn; 

His farm soon ran to mortgage, 
And briers choked his corn. 



BACK TO MY GLEN. 115 

I've met the wild explorer, 

Who came to sell his stock 
In mines that had some metal, 

But quite too much of rock ; 

And bored for oil and missed it, 
And dug for coal, and found 

That barren streaks are sometimes 
Discovered in the ground. 

I've seen the wayward brother 
Who meets you at the train; 

He only wants a dollar, 
He'll "pay it back again." 

You give it, but you 'bid it 
Farewell, and seem to know 

That you have only loaned him 
A dollar's worth of woe. 

I've seen the man who greets you 
With friendship fresh and warm, 

To get you to endorse him 
In bank.— -"'Tis but a form;" 



116 BACK TO MY GLEN. 

For he "would curse his manhood 
And give his coat away, 

Before he'd let endorsers 
A penny for him pay l" 

I've heard the poor pretender 
Declaim in some one's ear 

Of his prospective millions, — 
For those around to hear; 

And met the toiling agent 
Of books, who always knew 

What good, ones' bold initials 
Upon his list would do ; 

And seen the church committee 
And blessed them, as they came 

To have me give subscriptions, — 
The prestige of my name. 

I've seen the stock arena, 
When financiers at play 

Shook streets, and broke the market, 
And swept the lambs away; 



BACK TO MY GLEN. 117 

And seen men run for office, — 
"To help the vote," they said. 

They paid the bills, but others 
Came out too far ahead. 

I've seen the wealthy honored 

When treasuries were bare; 
For wills swell the endowment 

And bring the velvet chair. 

The small and great, Fve noticed, 

Are ever seeking fame, 
Through civic life or warfare, 

And sometimes win a name; 

But underneath the buzzing 

Of Fame's seductive wing 
There lurks a disappointment, 

With venom in its sting. 

The old incline to wisdom, 

And many of them know 
That much of human greatness 

Is intermixed with woe. 



118 BACK TO MY GLEN. 

Men sometimes climb the ladder 
In search of great renown, 

But often lose their balance 
And die in getting down. 

Some try the Whirlpool rapids, 
Or scale the Cataract, 

Or balloon up to heaven, 
Who never balloon back. 

And yet the world is pleasant 
With all its right and wrong, 

Its daring and its intrigue, 
Its merriment and song. 

But somehow I am weary, 
And seem of late to find 

That I am back to Nature 
And quietude inclined. 

Back to my glen, whose branches, 
And friendly leaf and tree, 

With interlocking fingers, 
Shut out the world from me. 



BACK TO MY GLEN. 119 

The pines have cast their leaflets 

In this my lone retreat, 
Like soft and downy carpets 

To charm my weary feet; 

And here my soul takes refuge, 

Far from the noisy throng, 
To hear dear Nature's voices 

Once more in holy song. 



GOING TO MILL. 

Away to mill, in the early morn, 

Went Farmer Jones with his wheat and corn; 

To get his grist, and return that night, 

He had to start before it was light; 

For that was the only mill that stood 

In all that populous neighborhood, 

And all the farmers, for miles around, 

Took grain to that one mill to be ground ; 

Where, by an old custom, long observed, 

The first who came were the first ones served. 

But Bachelor Jones, when half-way there, 

Overtook a maid with auburn hair, 

Whose team was struggling in the road, 

Unable to draw the heavy load : 

With wheels sunken down, and standing still, 

In mire, at the foot of Winding Hill. 
120 



GOING TO MILL. 121 

" Halloo !" said Jones, " what's the matter here ? 

You're fast in the mud, old man, I fear." 

But then, in the early dawn of light, 

He saw the maiden with eyes so bright 

That they shone like stars : " Oh, pardon me, 

For speaking rudely to you," said he. 

He drove around her team in the road, 

And saw she had a grist for a load. 

" Whoa, whoa !" said Jones, and his horses stood 

Champing their bits in impatient mood. 

"I'll help you, miss, if you'll let me try;" 

And with a rail he began to pry; 

But not so strangely as it might seem, 

His mind ran off on a future dream, 

And his eyes would turn, he knew not why, 

To catch the gleam of the maiden's eye. 

Had fun-loving girls, or boys been there, 

They would have jeered him, for such an air 

Of diligent toil, and absent thought, 

Was never before to vision brought. 

"I'd better assist you," said the maid, 

As on the lever her hand she laid. 
ip 11 



122 GOING TO MILL. 

This roused up Jones, and he used his strength 

Till the wheels moved on a wagon's length, 

And stood again on the solid ground; 

While he, regaining his senses, found 

His team, which he last saw standing still, 

Had gone half-way up the winding hill. 

" Oh, thank you !" said she ; " I did not mind 

That you had been left so far behind." 



Away bounded Jones;- "Whoa there!" he cried; 
And soon was up at his wagon's side. 
"'Twould be unfair," he muttering said, 
"To get my grist to the mill ahead, — 
She started out first, and I'll be just, 
And wait a week for mine, if I must." 
So, mounting again, he rode away 
In the gray dawn of the coming day. 
But he oft looked back to watch his load, 
And, perhaps, the maiden on the road, 
And thought aloud, as he rode along, 
"She's pretty and smart and real strong, — 



GOING TO MILL. 123 

Has tapering hands, and face so fair; 
Yet going to mill ! I do declare 
A shame it is, that a maid so bright 
Should drive this road before it is light! 
I wonder what in the world she'd say 
If I should propose to her some day?" 

And she came on up the hill alone, 

Her horse's shoes struck sparks from the stone, 

And musing she said, " This Mister Jones 

Is nice ! and a splendid farm he owns ; 

'Tis as good as mine; yet all his life, 

Ah me! is wasting without a wife. 

I do not want him myself, 'tis true, 

Yet there's no telling what one might do." 

So on they drove, till they both stood still 

Before the rumbling clattering mill, 

From which the miller came forth as white 

As comes a bride on her wedding night. 

" Good-morning !" said Jones; "I trust you'll grind 

This lady's grain first, mine comes behind." 



124 GOING TO MILL. 

He cared for his team, — and her team too; 
And then they travelled the grist-mill through, 
And heard the cogs with their chuckling sound, 
And saw the wheel in the race go 'round; 
And watched the foam of the waterfall 
As it thunder'd down the rocky wall. 

J Twas well for her that her wheels stuck fast; 
'Twas well for Jones that he drove past; 
? Twas lucky for both that at the hill 
They met each other, going to mill ! 
They joined their farms, and now the folks say 
They go to town in the good old way : 
He drives the team, and she, in her pride, 
Rides like a fairy queen by his side. 

But when they pass that difficult place 
Where he from the wheel beheld her face, 
Her eyes light up, and a roguish smile 
Plays over her lips, and she thinks meanwhile, 
That here it was, where her husband Jones 
Added a farm to the one she owns ! 



THE CKOW. 

We planted our corn on the tenth of May, 

And carefully made, ere we went away, 

The great " King-hill" for the squirrel and bird ; 

Trusting, if nothing to hinder occurred, 

That the rain would fall, and our corn would 

grow, 

Unseen by the watchful eye of the Crow. 

Nature, as ever, was true to its trust: 

It brought every germ of life from the dust; 

But when we went back to look at the field, 

And think of the profit the crop might yield, 

A flash of vengeance and thrill of despair 

Came over our dreams, — the Crow had been there ! 

Had she taken the corn, the rows between, 

Or along the woods, where the land was lean, 

Or that which was yellow, shrivellVl, and small, 

And left what was green and healthy and tall ; 
11* 125 



126 THE CROW. 

Or pulled what she did from the stony streak, 
We might have cared less; but her thieving beak 
Had only gone where the corn was the best, 
And purposely kept away from the rest. 
We hated that Crow; — perhaps it was well 
That no one was there to hear or to tell 
Just what we said; but we went for our gun 
To punish the bird for what she had done. 
We loaded it well with powder and shot, 
Determined to shoot her dead on the spot. 
Ha ! how she would swing from a pole when dead, 
With her head to earth and her wings outspread ! 
And what a delight it would be to see 
Her mate come around on the old dead tree, 
In his mourning dress, to grieve for the thief 
Whose love of plunder had brought her to grief! 
With cunning and stealth we waited; but no, 
We never could catch that villainous Crow ! 
Sometimes she would sail far up in the sky, 
Or circle around, our hiding to spy; 
But always so far away that she knew 
No shot could reach to the place where she flew: 




' We hated that crow.' 



THE CROW. 127 

And yet she would come and steal ev'ry morn 
From the richest ground a fresh lot of corn ! 

With desperate zeal a bough-house we made, 
And in it, for hours, we patiently laid, 
Till weary of time, once, rising to go, 
Provokingly up went flapping the Crow ! 
We swung out our gun, with malice intense, 
But she went so quickly over the fence, 
And darted so low, through the underwood, 
That we failed to see her from where' we stood. 
But our ire was up, and we quickly sent 
Two charges of shot in line where she went. 
She flew to a thicket of pines away, 
And there she exulted, seeming to say, 
"Men smarter than you, by far, have been born; 
You do the shooting and Fll take the corn !" 

A fox-trap we set, well baited, and hooks 
That we used for catching trout in the brooks, 
Made tempting with corn, we scattered around 
To catch her and hold her fast to the ground; 



128 THE CROW. 

But the field was long, and the field was wide, 
And she stole the corn on the other side ; 
And did her work with such consummate skill 
That she mocked our rage and baffled our will ! 
And wiser we grew as we saw each day 
Where pulling more corn she still got away. 

The Crow is a cosmopolitan bird, 

In every land may her voice be heard. 

She comes with a very innocent look 

From the darksome swale, to light by the brook, 

And seems to be bashful, cautious, and shy, 

Too honest to steal, but so very sly 

That every old farmer has learned to know 

The villainous wit of the sinful Crow. 



POOR OLD WARWICK. 

No home ! no home ! for poor Warwick ; 

They shut all the doors in my face ; 
I'm old and haggard and hungry, 

But no one will give me a place. 

I once was youthful and stalwart, 

And did what I thought was the best; 

I hoed my row in the cornfield, 

And cradled my swath with the rest. 

I could not boast of my learning, 

But when they would press me at toil, 

I mowed them out of the hayfield, 
And beat them at tilling the soil. 

And then they all wanted Warwick, 

And asked me to sit by their fire, 

And fed me long at their tables 

With all that my heart could desire; 
i 129 



130 POOR OLD WARWICK. 

And mothers spoke of their daughters,- 
Alas ! I am older, I know, 

And Time makes wonderful changes, 
As older and older I grow! 

I never have been dishonest, 
I never was drunk in my life; 

I loved my children to madness, 
And always was kind to my wife; 

But out of a cloudless future 

Came bolt after bolt, till the grass 

Grew green on their graves, — I marvel 
And weep for them yet as I pass. 

Were they in life with the living, 
Or the living less dead than they, 

I would not wander for shelter 
To hunger and faint by the way. 

I frequently think of Jadwin, 

"Who once broke his legs by a fall; 

I nursed him then like a brother, 
But now he's forgotten it all ! 



POOR OLD WARWICK. 131 

And says when I seek his friendship, 

That " Tramps are too common," and groans, 

As though he could bear to heaven 
The farms and the gold that he owns. 

And Grimes, when sick with a fever, 
Implored me to harvest his grain; 

I did it, and charged him nothing, 
And think I would do it again. 

But even he has forgotten 

The kindness I showed to him then, 
And turns away with a shudder, 

As though I were dreaded of men. 

And there is good Mrs. Lofty, 

I saved her from ruffians one day ; 

She's plenty of room in her kitchen, 
But turns me unsheltered away ! 

They know the world is my debtor, 

But each thinks his neighbor should give 

Me some kind of light employment, 
At which I might manage to live. 



132 POOR OLD WARWICK. 

The preacher treated rne kindly, 

But he spoke of my soul, and said, 

"They'd feed me down at the Almshouse;" 
I wish he had offered me bread. 

Like a worn-out steed, which masters 
Have petted for profit, I'm cast 

Away to die on the commons, 
Unsheltered, uncared for at last! 

I stood in the ranks when thunder 

Went up from the Blue and the Gray; 

When foes shook hands in the trenches 
As their lives were ebbing away : 

And there I was badly wounded, 
But a foeman came passing by, — 

He must have had a good mother, 
For a tear-drop stood in his eye 

As down to a spring he bore me, 

And blessed me, and hurried away; — 

I saw that he was in peril, 

And did not desire him to stay ; 



POOR OLD WARWICK. 133 

But felt that all hearts are human 
If rightly approached. Now I see 

I cannot reach them, they're busy, 
And no one will listen to me. 

The world has no room for Warwick ! 

Yet all out of doors is my own; 
ISTo home for the worn-out toiler, 

He's friendless, and wanders alone! 

Perhaps some day they will find me 

No longer a beggar, but cast, 
Like some old tree of the forest, 

To earth by the pitiless blast. 

And then they will laud my virtues 
And tell what a soldier Fve been, 

And give me a farewell sermon 
And funeral cortege, — and then, 

When up in Abraham's bosom, 

If spirits may supplicate there, 

I'll make my wealthy old neighbors 

An especial subject of prayer. 
12 



JOHN WHITE'S TRIAL. 

'Twas out along the Delaware, 

As some old residents declare, 

That once there came into a town 

A parson by the name of Brown. 

He was a youth, and handsome too, 

And girls, as girls will seldom do, 

Gave him attention and began 

To show some kindness to the man. 

Foremost of these was Sister Burr, 

But he, it seems, cared less for her, 

For when she stood, on some pretext, 

In line to share his greeting next, 

And of his welfare to inquire, 

He gave no reflex of desire; 

But from the Karitan he brought 

The lady that his fancy sought. 

But when she came, poor girl, she found 

Her name was whispered 'round and 'round ; 
134 



JOHN WHITE'S TRIAL. 135 

And frequently some jest or word 

Of jealousy she overheard; 

Till one day, as she chanced to meet 

An aged man upon the street, 

She made no effort to suppress 

Her pleasure at his fond caress. 

He was a stranger, and surprise 

Flashed from a score of jealous eyes. 

This added fuel to the flame 

Of village gossip, and her name 

Upon the lips of envy flew, 

Till some old justice roughly drew 

An Information, and John White 

Was sent to jail that Wednesday night, 

Charged with assault, and yet he saw 

No cause to dread offended law. 



This was the night for weekly prayV, 
And as the tones died on the air 
From that old bell, which long had flung 
Its welcome from its iron tongue, 



136 JOHN WHITE'S TRIAL. 

The people came, and o'er the pews 

Went whisp'rings of the startling news. 

The Parson was away, 'twas said, 

And Deacon Smith the service led. 

He had prepared himself that day 

With what to read and what to say, 

But in the service, "unawares," 

The gossip tangled with his prayers. 

'Twas bad enough, their quiet place 

And Church was threatened with disgrace, 

And all agreed that Sister Brown 

Ought not to tarry in the town. 

The comments all against her ran, 

Few casting censure on the man. 

"A shame it is," the young girls said, 

"That Brown should such a creature wed: 

( She's pretty,' as the saying goes, 

But pretty is that pretty does !" 



When Court convened, a motley crowd 
Of young and old and poor and proud 



JOHN WHITE'S TRIAL. 137 

Came in, and filled each bench and place 

To listen to the novel case. 

And now imagine, if you can, 

A stranger from the Raritan, 

Past sixty maybe, maybe less, 

With rather quaint but genteel dress, 

Who sat revolving in his mind 

The vagaries of human kind. 



The witnesses were Sister Sears 

And Sister Jones, both young in years, 

Who on that day distinctly saw 

This horrid breach of social law! 

White was arraigned, — the case began, 

And 'round the court a broad smile ran, 

Which broadened, till the Bailiff's staff 

Could scarcely check the boisterous laugh, 

When it was shown that on the street 

John chanced the Pastor's bride to meet, 

And did there in a public place 

Imprint a kiss upon her face ! 
12* 



138 JOHN WHITE'S TRIAL. 

And still they laughed, when Lawyer Grimm, 

With fiery zeal becoming him, 

Asked Sister Jones "If she had tried 

Herself to be the Pastor's bride?" 

And so confusion reigned again, 

And scarcely could the Judge refrain 

From laughter, when young Sister Sears, 

With first a sigh, and then some tears, 

Said, with her face behind her fan, v 

"Ere Fd be met by such a man 

Upon the street, Fd rather — why, 

Indeed, sir, I would rather die!" 

The State's attorney then arose 

And said, "Your Honor, please, we close." 



Grimm had no witnesses to call, 
And said he'd offer none at all ; 
But to the jury went, and plead, 
And swung his arms above his head, 
And rising on his tiptoes stood 
To shake his locks at Lawyer Wood, 




" Indeed, sir, I would rather die!' 



Page 138. 



JOHN WHITE'S TRIAL. 139 

Or with his index finger sent 
Some touching thought or argument, 
Which fairly made the jurors weep, — 
Except the three who were asleep ! 
When Grimm, exhausted, took his chair, 
Wood rose, and with imperious air 
Said he "cast back with scorn what Grimm 
Had falsely charged and said of him." 
He stormed with rage, and on his tongue 
Unuttered imprecations hung; 
But while resentment lit his face, 
He quite forgot to touch his case! 



The boundless learning and the zeal 

Of lawyers, both for woe and weal, 

Were now expended, and the Court, 

As if to end this wanton sport, 

Most gravely charged, and sternly sent 

The jury out, and as they went 

He frowned on poor old John, whose face 

Was the embodiment of grace. 



140 JOHN WHITE'S TRIAL. 

John's case was not so bad, but then 

Just what a jury of twelve men 

Will think, or say, or what they'll do, 

No living mortal ever knew! 

Three wise men on that jury sat, 

And when they added this to that 

Of proven and unproven things, 

"With all their own imaginings, 

John White to their discerning eyes 

Became a monster in disguise! 

Some took their knowledge of the case 

From current gossip in the place ; 

Some were the clientage of Grimm, 

And wanted to decide with him ; 

Some were the friends of Lawyer Wood, 

And so with him their feelings stood; 

But after talking pro and con, 

Three-fourths of them came out for John, 

And so they voted ; but the three 

Could never with the nine agree! 

The stubborn nine that tried to shield 

The aged man, began to yield 



JOHN WHITE'S TRIAL. 141 

By ones and twos, till all agreed 
That poor old John of course must need 
Time to reflect, and to repent 
Through prison bars and punishment. 

When they returned, a falling pin 
Might have been heard as they filed iu. 
The good old sisters craned their necks, 
The Judge picked up his golden spec's, 
But when the Clerk the verdict read, 
Poor John, dissenting, shook his head. 
"It serves him right!" said Sister Burr: 
"To greet a horrid thing like her 
Was out of taste, but she should be 
Found guilty too, as well as he." 

The Judge looked grave and quite severe, 
And said, "Well, John, Fm pained to hear 
That one at your ripe time of life 
Should disrespect a Pastor's wife; 
The jury find you guilty, though, 
And so to jail I think you'll go. 



142 JOHN WHITE'S TRIAL. 

I guess I'll give you thirty days, 

And trust that you may mend your ways." 

"Please, sir," said John, "may I not speak? 

'Tis only justice that I seek ; 

And it perhaps might mitigate 

My sentence if I may relate 

That my own daughter lives in town : 

She is the wife of Parson Brown ; 

And when we met the other day 

By chance upon your public way, 

I knew of nothing to forbid 

My greeting her, and so I did. 

My son-in-law is not at home, 

Nor would I let my daughter come 

To vindicate me here in court, 

And face this vulgar, senseless sport. 

What parent to such love objects?" 

The Judge looked downward o'er his spec's 
And smiled; then leaned upon his desk, 
And said, "Well, John, you took some risk, 



JOHN WHITE'S TRIAL. 143 

And yet I own your story brings 
A somewhat altered state of things. 
If 'twas your daughter, as you say, 
Or you mistook her on the way, 
And no suspicion ever rose 
That it was some one else, I s'pose 
You're not to blame; but then it takes 
Some trouble to correct mistakes." 

"I've been a preacher thirty years," 

Said John, " and nursed the Church with tears, 

And out along the Karitan 

They'd doubt the motives of the man 

Who would deny my right to greet 

My daughter on the public street." 

" Well," said the Judge, " I'm glad to know 
That you ought not to prison go; 
And since your tastes are so like mine, 
You're free with only two cents fine!" 

Then flitting out went Sister Burr, — 
A quiet smile went after her; 



144 JOHN WHITE'S TRIAL. 

And Grimm and Wood shook hands, and each 
Spoke highly of the other's speech. 
And mothers said, as they withdrew, 
" La ! what is earth a-coming to ?" 
And whispering girls and laughing men 
Saw what mistakes there might have been. 



GROWING OLD TOGETHER. 

They had disagreements as lovers, 
But tenderness mingled with strife, 

And vying in well-balanced conflicts, 
They formed an attachment for life. 

White roses encircled the altar 
As the Parson came forth to bind 

Their lives in that marital mortgage, 
Which God has so wisely designed. 

They had turned away from their kindred, 
From lovers, from hearthstone, from home : 

What wonder that looks of inquiry 
From each to the other should come? 

Their childhood had little in common ; 

They differed on creed and on state, 

On tenets of predestination, 

On science and dogmas of fate; 
g k 13 145 



146 GROWING OLD TOGETHER. 

And so there came tests of opinion: — 
Her Church was to him not a home, 

And as his to her was no better, 
They never together could come. 

Sometimes they would start in the morning 
To go where the worshipful meet, 

And part as they came to the corner, 
Each taking a different street. 

Her parents advised her to firmness, 
And his would intrude to consult; 

But confusion, the worse confounded, 
Was always the final result. 

Friends came with the best of intentions, 
And others would call to display 

Their anxious desire to assist them 
In a very different way. 

Her father soon died, and her mother 

In loneliness quickly foresaw 
That she must become with her daughter 

A much-dreaded mother-in-law. 



GROWING OLD TOGETHER. 147 

Of course she directed his household, 
And the star of his rule grew dim, 

For now there were two of his partner 
And only a unit of him. 

But he with a manliness gave her 
A welcome, nor went to the town 

To squander his means at the club-house 
Nor seek a traducer's renown, 

But feasted her friends at his mansion, 
And honored her more than before; 

Till the Pale Horse came uninvited, 
And took her away from his door. 

Their children, as one might imagine, 
By teaching were led to and fro; 

They never could reach a conclusion, 
They never knew just where to go; 

For what the one taught them, the other 
Disputed and taught the reverse, 

Till duplicate creeds were engendered, 
Or sceptical thoughts that were worse. 



148 GROWING OLD TOGETHER. 

The eldest son printed a paper, 
But double, instruction was there : 

It stalked like a ghost through his sanctum, 
And floated around in the air: 

He stranded on church and on party; 

His list was soon frittered away; 
He doubled on all but subscribers, 

And found that the press wouldn't pay. 

The second son entered the pulpit, 
But stood on a double-reef ? d creed, — 

His religion was not too meagre, 

He had more than he seemed to need ; 

And the Solons of faith predicted 
That he'd stop on the golden stairs 

To double with wayfaring angels 
A few theological hairs. 

The third was a lover of Blackstone, 

With a bright intelligent face; 
But the Books of Report conflicted, 

And he could not manage a case ! 



GROWING OLD TOGETHER. 149 

The parents still clung to conviction, 

Each bearing a different load, 
Each feeling concern for the other, 

Each taking a different road, 

And yet they believ'd that hereafter, 
When nearing their heavenly home, 

These ways would incline to each other 
And at last together would come. 

They had both of them passed through peril 

Surprisingly near to the grave, 
But the love and pray'rs of the other 

Were present and potent to save. 

They are now growing old together, 
And winter draws 'round with its blast, 

And beats at the window and gable 
With its gusts recurring so fast, 

And the snow drifts in at the lattice 

And appears to whiten their hair, 

But the chill of stormy opinion 

No longer floats 'round in the air. 
13* 



150 GROWING OLD TOGETHER. 

On questions of creed and of science 
They have ceased to strive, for they see 

That doctors have argued upon them, 
And yet they can never agree. 

And why should they part on the final 
Perseverance of saints, or try 

To solve what will need no solution 
In the wonderful realms on high? 

Their view of humanity broadens 
As charity tempers the years, 

And up from contracted surroundings 
A grander religion appears, 

Before which conflicting opinions, 
Like fagots from forests of pine, 

Light up in the flame of devotion 
And consuming around them shine. 

The paths they have trod come together, 
Like rays that converge in the west, 

And meet at one luminous centre 
On the road to their final rest. 



GROWING OLD TOGETHER. 151 

And the silver'd locks that adorn them, 
Made whiter by patience and worth, 

As though washed by the spray of rivers, 
Are the grandest blossoms of earth. 

And now, from the tumult retiring, 
They sit in their mansion alone, 

And await the coming of angels 
To summon them up to the throne; 

And each in the eye of the other 

Can read of that bright shining shore, 

Where creeds of the world are forgotten 
And discord shall come nevermore. 



HOW THE EAGLE WAS MADE. 

A stoey we have, which is not veiy long, 

Unprinted in fable, unspoken in song, 

Of how in the far-away eons of shade 

That bird of the mountains, the Eagle, was made. 

The gods met in council, and each tried to tell 

Of what he had fashioned, most wisely and well ; 

But each one's creation, when put to the test, 

Was lacking in something as seen by the rest. 

The goose was too clumsy, the crane was too 

frail ; 

The beak of the snipe was too long for its tail; 

The parrot was noisy, the peacock all show, 

Too much of Old Nick was put into the crow; 

And so, after passing in detail around 

Over body and plume, the bird-makers found 

That all were defective; and then they agreed 

To fashion a bird of such vigor and speed 
152 



HOW THE EAGLE WAS MADE. 153 

That none should deny, when it sat on a crag, 
Or peered through the smoke of the fight from 

a flag, 
That those who designed it were potent to save 
The cause it upheld, and the rights of the brave. 

They canvassed their wisdom: one said he had 

skill 
To make for the Eagle an excellent bill; 
He had formed the beaks of the loon and the 

drake 
For gathering food from the marsh and the lake; 
Made flat bills and cross bills, and bills of the 

hens, 
And garrulous bills that were loose at both ends; 
But of all the patterns, from linnet to rook, 
The best for the Eagle was one with a hook ; 
For then, when he struck at his prey or his foe, 
He would always hold fast, and never let go. 

Another one said he had studied the laws, 
And many designs for creating the claws; 



154 SOW THE EAGLE WAS MADE. 

He had fashioned the foot of the swan to swim, 
And the woodpecker's foot for climbing the 

limb, 
And the toes for scratching the new garden-bed; 
But the Eagle should have on his foot instead 
Some claws, that could grapple the lambs that 

might roam, 
By Royalty's bidding, too far from their home. 



Another one said that a bird of the sky 
Should have for detection a far-seeing eye, 
To watch when the foe was recruiting afar 
To urge some injustice by threatening war. 
Another proposed that his will should be strong, 
His heart should be brave, and his quills should 

be long, 
For perhaps it might be that heroic men 
Would seek through the world for a masterly pen, 
To write constitutions, whose spirited words 
Would stand in the van like an army with 

swords. 



HOW THE EAGLE WAS MADE. 155 

At length all the gods were agreed on his size, 
On his strength, and his speed, his form, and his 

eyes; 
And to each, at his choice, was wisely assigned 
That part to which skill or his fancy inclined. 

The predestined soul of a Darwin came there ; 
But they cast him back, as a "prince of the 

air/' 
And said that they wanted no millions of years 
Of venture, with all of its consequent fears 
That a first protoplasm, evolving might grow, 
Perhaps to a buzzard, or else to a crow. 
They wanted no chance, or selection, to bring 
From a miniature fin the coveted wing, 
But thought that Design and Creators should be 
On the ground when they made this bird of the 

Free. 



They finished the plans, and the Eagle came forth, 
The king of the fowls, and a monarch of earth. 



156 HOW THE EAGLE WAS MADE. 

He sat on the spear when the Romans were 

strong, 
And flew to the hills when their cause went 

wrong ; 
But now, as he sits on the high mountain crag, 
Or floats with the stars on the blue of the flag, 
The nations respect him; and Royalty nods 
To the bird that was made and fashioned by gods. 
And so, in the far-away eons of shade, 
That symbol of power, the Eagle, was made. 



THE EACE. 

The public road and track of rail 

Lay side by side within a vale, — 

Six miles they stretched away, or more, 

As level as a threshing floor, 

When came a bicycle along, 

Eun by a youth, both brave and strong, 

Who skimm'd the highway as a train 

Came dashing on the level plain. 

" They shall not pass me !" cried the youth ; 

Although he recognized the truth 

That human effort may not dream 

To vie with steel, nor distance steam. 

He plied his strength, his wheel was seen 

To glisten like a silver sheen 

Past rock and bush and hawthorn-tree, — 

A challenge made most gallantly. 

14 157 



158 THE RAGE. 

The rushing engine seem'd to feel 
That challenge thrill its nerves of steel, 
And rolled the track beneath it fast. 
The engineer looked out at last 
And saw the youth was holding ground, 
And felt his heart within him bound 
As cheers went up, the youth to hail, 
From cars that scarcely touched a rail. 
" Hurrah ! hurrah !" and hat and hand 
Waved greetings o'er the flying land. 
But midst those cheers, that roar and din, 
The flash of treadles still was seen, 
And spinning spokes made swift reply, 
"You cannot, shall not, pass us by!" 



The engineer put on more steam, 
And made the brazen whistle scream 
"Up brakes!" and every iron arm 
And band of steel caught the alarm, — 
Quivered and strained till wheel and car 
Went rushing like a falling star. 



THE RACE. 159 

They won that triumph, few would feel, 
When bravery yields to steam and steel. 
The youth was lagging in the race, 
But still upon his burning face 
The living and undaunted flame 
Of will and effort was the same. 



Unequal as this strife appears, 

It marked a youth whose riper years 

Will bring him sages for his peers, 

In contests on life's broader plain 

Where stubborn issues bend to brain. 

For he whose heart is brave and free 

Will meet and master destiny, 

And make his will, his thought, his word, 

O'er mind and men and matter, lord. 

How few in life's fierce conflicts stand 
To test the means at their command ! 
They yield whenever chances frown, 
And lav their arms and armor down 



160 THE RACE. 

Before the battle is begun; 
But noble triumphs may be won 
In art and letters by the man 
Who says, "I will," who says, "I can," — 
Who sees, of rushing thought, the train, 
And feels its thrill through heart and brain, 
And meets each contest with the cry, 
" They cannot, shall not pass me by !" 



THE MOUNTAINS. 

Geand dreamy mountains, with your rocky walls, 
On whose proud peaks the Storm-King's footstep 

falls, 
Whose slanting strata, flinted to the blast, 
Hold countless fossils from an unknown past, 
Oh, may we not upon thy summits stand 
To view the valleys and the leagues of land, 
And lines of mist and smoky peaks that lie 
In circling vastness out before the eye? 

Up from the town, where craft and beauty dwell, 

The call of engine and the chime of bell 

In faint and way-worn echoes come and go, 

Like dying murmurs, on the plain below. 

The tranquil lake, far distant, seems to rise 

Above the nearer land, as though the skies 

Were bending proudly half-way down to share 

The cooling draught that Neptune lifts to air. 
I 14* 161 



162 THE MOUNTAINS. 

The winding river, whitening as it goes, 
Like silver, gleams and glistens as it flows 
Out to the sky, and touching, seems to be 
An open gateway to immensity. 

'Tis here, where mortal feet have seldom trod, 
That we can feel the nearness of our God; 
Whose laws have lifted mountains one by one, 
Cut deep the valleys where the streamlets run, 
And made the eye of Sage and Poet glow 
Upon the scene of grandeur spread below. 

Empires may fall, and centuries go by; 

Republics may be born, traditions die ; 

The endless miracle of transient things 

May fan the ages with its mystic wings ; 

But on forever shall thy summits rise 

To cleave the clouds and consort with the skies ! 



Tempests may beat and break against thy form, 
Nature may rouse the spirit of the storm, 



THE MOUNTAINS. 163 

And, demon-like, aslant thy bosom throw 
Its lance of lightning on the vales below. 
Age after age and ranks of life may pass, 
Or fall around thee, as the withered grass; 
But Time has written on thy mossy brow 
The symbols of an everlasting now. 



LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 

When icy fingers clasp the brooks and rills, 
And snow goes hissing, drifting o'er the hills, 
A little bird hops through a frosted tree 
And sings from snow-flecked throat, " Chick-a dee 
dee." 

Down o'er the meadows and the frozen plain 
The Crow goes flying with her wild refrain, 
Proclaiming, prophesying with her " Caw" 
The coming of the rain, and "Thaw, thaw, thaw!" 

In spring the Robin seeks the topmost limb, 
And sings with purest passion his sweet hymn. 
J Tis good advice to husbandmen who keep it, — 
"Plough it, harrow it, sow it, and reap it!" 

And while his throat gives in the morning hours 

These notes that echo through the budding bowers, 
164 



LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 165 

The children gather near to hear him sing, 
And bless his joyful heraldry of spring. 

So comes the Bluebird, with his sky-blue wings, 
Upon the lightning-rod he sits and sings, 
" E pluribus unum !" whilst boys and birds 
List to his song of old colonial words. 

And, w T hen the balmy nights of blooming May 
Come darkling on the pathway of the day, 
A night-bird comes, and near the window-sill 
Sings " Whip poor will, whip poor will, whip poor 
will !" 

The farmer throws the shutter back and spies 
The mottled bird, and through the darkness cries, 
" What has poor Will done, that he must be 

whipped ? 
Has he with wanton cruel fingers stripped 

The eggs from out your low-down rock bare nest, 
Or stole the nestlings from your sheltering breast ?" 
" Chuck !" says the Whippoorwill, and flying 

straight, 
Renews her song upon the garden gate. 



166 LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 

In swamps, with head of cat and breast of fowl, 
Is heard the bold inquiry of the Owl. 
Where at short intervals the long night through 
He sits and hoots, " Too hoo, whoo hoo, whoo hoo \" , 

The Gruinea-hen in yard and field and street 
Calls long and loud for her "Buckwheat, buck- 
wheat," 
And Quails, when hunter Bob is out of sight, 
Call tauntingly his name, " Bob White, Bob White !" 

At dusk in spring-time up the fen Snipe flies, 
And circling 'round, goes whirring to the skies, 
Then turning zigzag downward falling, brings 
A strange peculiar music from his wings. 

The lazy Cuckoo heralds forth its name; 
The Chewink fills the forest with its fame; 
Woodpeckers, ? round old trees, with pointed bills, 
From hollow limbs send echoes o'er the hills. 

The Pewee from beneath the bridge flies out, 
And gives its name to all the birds about; 
And red-wing'd Blackbirds and the Bobolink 
Talk faster than the other birds can think! 



LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 167 

The Oriole sends from its golden breast 
Shrill piping notes much sweeter than the rest, 
And in the land of moss, and palms, is heard 
The sprightly carol of the Mocking-bird. 

Birds have their songs, and, like the rustic swain 
Who tells his story o'er and o'er again, 
Their unchanged notes come fresh and pure as when 
They first inspired and thrilled the souls of men. 



DRIFTING. 

Each year makes broader the river 
That carries our spirits along 

Past bowers and denser wildwood, 

That charm us with blossom and song. 

But when shall we reach the ocean, 
To shrink from the awe of its roar? 

And where will the wild waves bear us 
As we drift away from the shore? 

Are there other worlds awaiting 

Our coming, which we too may love; 

And song and kindred and flowers 
On some other planet above? 

Our hearts beat strong at the answer, 

As down from the star-lit sky 
There comes from unmeasured vastness 

This soothing, but solemn reply i 

168 



DRIFTING. 169 

"If plants may have resurrection 
From winter and death, by design, 

What dust or high-foaming billow 
Shall bury a spirit like thine? 

"Despair not, then, when the winter 
Dismantles thy soul, as the tree; 

Nor when the dreaded hereafter 

Rolls up like the wrath of the sea; 

" For yonder among the planets, 

In heaven among the sublime 
And beautiful worlds, are living 

The souls that are garner'd from Time. 

"And what if old age comes on us, 
And clutches our mantle, and waits, 

To lead our unwilling spirits 

Away through the limitless gates, — 

"'Tis but the hand of our Father 
That comes, in this friendly disguise, 

To change our bodies, and ripen 
Our souls for a life in the skies, — 



170 DRIFTING. 

"For a world, untouched by peril, 
Unsaddened by crime or despair; 

Since none but the pure and gentle 
Shall ever be found with us there. 

" Oh, let us be strong, and calmly 
Reach out to the hand of our God ; 

J Tis dark, but He will direct us 

On the way that millions have trod. 

"And there, with an adaptation 
To other conditions, we'll roam 

At will with the great of ages, 

In the realms of an endless home!" 



THE CLOCK OF AGES. 

Theee was an unmarked era, 

When atoms could not find 
Affinity to bring them 

Another of their kind: 
When absence of attraction 

Prohibited the spheres; 
But midst that desolation 

Creation's God appears ! 
Then, fast as light could travel 

Through unrestricted space, 
The fixed suns broke the darkness 

And planets swung in place; 
And rising o'er the arches 

Of the starry Milky- Way 

A mighty clock of ages 

In triumph ticked the day. 

171 



172 THE CLOCK OF AGES. 

Its wheels are circling systems, 

Its dial is the sky; 
Its hands reach out to measure 

The ages that go by. 
It marked the drifting cycles 

That down from chaos ran, 
In prehistoric eras 

Before the birth of man. 
Its pendulum is ever 

In motion to and fro, 
And tides of life and being 

And species come and go. 
It calls us from the cradle, 

And leaves us at the tomb 
Immortal, where the angels 

May greet us as we come. 
Our reason falls bewildered, 

We cannot ascertain 
What these recurring eras 

Of time and vastness mean. 
We do not know their import, 

We do not comprehend 




'It ticks and ticks the years.' 



Page 173. 



THE CLOCK OF AGES. 173 

Duration without limit, 

Nor space without an end; 
But at God's omnipresence 

And His omniscience stand 
Amazed, and note what regions 

Are held at His command. 
And so this clock of ages 

More wonderful appears 
As down the endless eons 

It ticks and ticks the years. 
Man hath no inspiration 

So gifted in its sweep, 
No thought or flight of fancy 

To penetrate the deep 
Unfathomed shoreless wisdom 

Of Him, whose dwelling-place 
Is frescoed by the glories 

Of star-emblazoned space. 
Immensity is only 

His unrestricted home, 

And heaven with all its vastness 

Is but the starry dome, 
15* 



174 THE CLOCK OF AGES. 

In which this dreamy time-piece 
In towering grandeur stands, 

To measure off the epochs 
And eons with its hands. 



MUSIC OF THE MABSHES. 

I sit in the balmy evening 

When Winter has yielded to Spring, 
And hear from the voiceful marshes 

The amphibious minstrels sing. 

"Three times shall their song be silenced," 
Three times the frosts coming shall freeze 

The pools and silence their voices, 
Ere blossoms shall come to the trees. 

In dampness and cold these songsters 
Have languished, imprisoned so long, 

That now they yield to rejoicing, 

And night seems alive with their song. 

? Tis like to the song of crickets, 

Whose anthems in August abound; 

Or katydids in the thickets 

With measured and multiplied sound. 

175 



176 MUSIC OF THE MARSHES. 

Oh, grand are these songs of Nature, 
With their notes so joyful and wild ; 

They lose not a shade of pathos, 
But come to the heart of the child 

As sweet as they came to the prophets, 
In lands far over the sea; 

And so they shall come forever 
To the millions that are to be! 



LONGFELLOW. 

In the State of Maine, 

Where the sky inclines 
To the purple rim 

Of the forest pines, 
A poet was born, 

Whose earlier dreams 
Were cradled by winds 

And rock'd by the streams; 

And the one thus brought 

To a world that sought 
The fountains of song 

And of nobler thought, 
Took lessons from crags 

And whispering trees, 
From the song of birds 

And anthem of seas, 



177 



178 LONGFELLOW. 

And studied the tints 
Of glory that died 

On the gilded west 
At the evening- tide. 

He saw with delight 

The white waters foam 
Down the rocky glens 

Of his Northern home ; 
And saw where the bands 

Of the tinted bow 
Link'd clouds of the sky 

To the world below; 
And saw the winds waft 

The petals that play 
O'er the feet of June 

From the crowns of May. 

He stood in the groves 
Where the soft winds call, 

And saw the red leaves 
In his pathway fall, 



LONGFELLOW. 179 

And wrote of the sea, 

The glen, and the glade, 
Of the mountain wall 

And the dreamy shade, 
And wove so deftly 

The legends of race, 
That the Heathen sang 

In the Minstrel's place. 



As rises the sun 

To its Summer's noon, 
And shines with its strength 

In the Summer's June, 
So he warmed the world 

By his matchless song. 
But Nature had been 

His comrade so long, 
That on, arm in arm, 

Into age he passed, 
And with his old friend 

Commun'd to the last. 



180 LONGFELLOW. 

Why tarried he now 

When his fame was won? 
Why lingered the glow 

Of his life's great sun? 
Did the village lights, 

Through the mist and rain, 
Or an Alpine voice 

Inspire him again ? 
Or did the " Old Clock" 

On the stairs still chime 
Its "Never" to him 

Through the halls of time? 



A new "Psalm of Life" 

Fell sweet on his ears, 
In tremulous tones, 

From the far-off spheres, 
Inclining his soul 

To venture afar, 
Where real worlds shine 

In place of the star. 



LONGFELLOW. 181 

I never can see 

Them gleam but I feel 
What glories they must 

To his soul reveal. 

Not Cambridge alone 

Shall bend at the throne 
Where his muse once sang, 

But millions shall own 
The charm of his song; 

And millions unborn 
Shall rise to that life 

He helped to adorn, 
And turn, like flowers, 

From darkness and gloom 
To the light that shines 

From Longfellow's tomb. 



16 



PICTUEES ON THE SKY. 

I SAW the far-distant lightning, 

From the snow-white clouds that lay 

Behind the storm to the eastward, 
Salute the departing day. 

And saw in the forming twilight, 
When the denser shades drew nigh, 

A beautiful dreamy picture 
Of a landscape on the sky. 

'Twas bright as a land of spirits, 
As down o'er the arching globe 

The sun drew through the golden # gate 
The fringe of its golden robe, 

And gleamed on a fancied ocean, 

Where clouds made the bord'ring land 

With bays and silvery islands 

And projecting bars of sand. 
182 



- - 



w V\ until! / / 






, J, . 









If 



If 



" A landscape on the sky.' 



Page 182. 



PICTURES ON THE SKY. 183 

And many a seeming forest 

Stood off to the left or right, 
And many a mountain summit 

Eose grandly to my sight. 

And over the tranquil bosom 

Of this ocean on the sky 
Bright ships, with their snow-white canvas, 

Went silently sailing by. 

Bay after bay in the distance 

Ran back to an endless sea, 
And the more I gazed upon it 

The grander it seemed to me. 

How often a charming landscape 

Like this to the youth appears, 
Far out on the golden future 

Of the distant sky of years, 

Which fades in the later twilight 
Of life, when the toil and pain 

And the denser shades of darkness 
Sink down on the world again. 



THE FOREST PINE. 

A pine whose top had swayed in air, 
To and fro like a priest at prayer, 
Tossing its plumes and boughs of green 
Proudly above the sylvan scene, — 
Mocking the heat and snow and storm 
And winds that beat against its form, 
Beheld an axeman's flashing eye 
Of heartless greed, as he drew nigh. 
Ah ! soon its trunk began to feel 
The woodsman's biting tooth of steel, 
As chip by chip fell on the snow, 
Cut from its fibres down below ! 

Listen ! It gives a long-drawn sigh, 

As when the howling blast goes by, 

And sways and plunges like a knight 

Struck to his death in deadly fight, 
184 



THE FOREST PINE. 185 

And downward, sweeping from the air, 
Moans to the wind its dying prayer, — 
Filling the hills and vales around 
With thunder as it strikes the ground. 
Oh, cruel axeman ! centuries 
Cannot replace these grand old trees ! 



16* 



THE EFFECT OF PEAYER. 

Once Satan came forth and stood in the way 

Of a youth who went to the groves to pray; 

" Stay, Christian !" said he : " for kingdoms are mine, 

And honor and fame may also be thine! 

Turn back from your God, turn hither your eyes 

From pleasures obscured in fanciful skies. 

The present we have, the future we dread; 

Can happiness come to mortals when dead? 

Why wait you to reap your riches in shrouds, 

Or seek for enjoyments up in the clouds? 

No! rather in life make fortune your aim, 

And rise with the great to glory and fame. 

Why smilest thou, friend ? thy prayers only burn 

Thy sacrificed life, and thou shalt return 

Unsatisfied back to darkness and gloom, 

Like flowers that fade and die by the tomb!" 
186 



TEE EFFECT OF PRAYER. 187 

" I smile not for you/' then Christian replied : 
"I have seen your fame, your riches and pride; 
The burglar, the thief, and the gambler drink 
Deep of your glory and fame; do they sink 
Down into ruin and sin and despair 
Because of their love of God and of prayer? 
The wife, who awaits the drunkard's return ; 
And the children, whose hearts too early learn 
The causes of want, of woe, and of care; — 
Are they the victims of somebody's prayer? 
In the dungeon's cell, where the guilty sleep; 
In the wretched homes where the injured weep; 
And in haunts of vice, of remorse and shame; — 
Have these been sharing your glory and fame? 



"I seek none of these; this path have I trod 
Amidst the great oaks, to pray to my God : 
Unfathomed, and sweet, the rapture I feel; 
I'll pray for you, Satan ! Come, let us kneel." 
" Stay !" said the Devil ; " the voice of your prayer 
Is thunder, remorse, and dread to my ear!" 



188 THE EFFECT OF PRAYER. 

But Christian knelt down, unheeding his call, 
And prayed to his God, the Euler of all. 
The Devil flew hence, and Christian to-day 
Meets him no more as he goes out to pray! 
Satan is kind ! he would guide us to fame ; 
But behind him lurk the sting and the shame; 
One flash of prayer burns off the disguise; 
Sin stands abashed and the Devil flies ! 




. " Sin stands abashed and the Devil flies ! ; 



Page 188. 



SPAKE THE LITTLE ONES. 

Deae little ones! they mean no wrong; 
Their sparkling eyes, their laugh, their song, 
And sunny hearts so full of love, 
Are sinless as the saints above. 

Instruct the little ones, for earth 
Has given nothing sweeter birth: 
To them we well may turn from care, 
For joy is ever living there. 

Protect the little ones! Some day 
A frost may touch them as they play, 
And slowly passing from your door, 
Their forms may go to come no more. 

Then, in your pensive memories, 
What sweeter, dearer thoughts can rise 
Than that their love, so pure and true, 
Was met with boundless love from you? 

189 



190 SPARE THE LITTLE ONES. 

Oh ; guide the little ones ! and when 
They rise to join the ranks of men, 
They will repay your care and bless 
Your age with faultless tenderness. 



THE OLD CHURCH AT DERBY. 

Ox Dauphin's plains, ere Sunday trains 

Had made their rude beginning 
To hush the notes which native choirs 

Were to Jehovah bringing, 
Scotch-Irish, in the fear of God, 

Had reared their church at Derry. 
Its floors they made from hearts of oak, 

Its pews from pine and cherry; 
Its glass they brought across the sea, 

And pegs around were driven, 
On which their guns in waiting hung 

Till some alarm was given. 
The nails were wrought by smiths at home, 

And doors to pews were swinging 

On hinges forged as bold and strong 

As were their songs for singing. 

191 



192 THE OLD CHURCH AT DERRY. 

The pulpit was of crescent shape; 

The sash were made of metal, 
And round this temple of the Lord 

Old heroes came to settle. 



Here good old Brainerd sometimes preached, 

And Bertram, Roan, and Elder, 
And Snowden, "Williams, and Adair, 

And Sharon, too, upheld her 
Creed with dignity and grace, 

Till, in the service falling, 
The pious Boggs and Mitchell came, 

And followed at his calling. 
And here came other noble men, 

Like Anderson and Evans, 
Who trod these aisles which opened on 

And ended in the Heavens. 
They had no bell nor lofty dome, 

But underneath this ceiling, 
"With Wallace, Wilson, Simington, 

They frequently were kneeling; 



THE OLD CHURCH AT DERRY. 193 

And it appeared, when they knelt down, 

That every prayer ascending 
So drew their thoughts to one desire 

That all their souls were blending. 
And as these ministers of grace 

Proclaimed the old, old story, 
The ever-present Christian God 

Filled all their hearts with glory. 



Sometimes with weeping wives they came, 

War's stern demand obeying; 
Defence made themes for eloquence, 

And peril cause for praying ; 
And if some quick-winged message came 

To break their prayers asunder, 
Their rifles spoke the sharp Amen 

With flash, and flame, and thunder! 



The trees are lisping praises yet, 

And low winds seem beseeching 
I n 17 



194 THE OLD CHURCH AT DERRY. 

The living to repent, as did 

These patriarchs while preaching. 
With an uncovered head we stand, 

Our reverence obeying, 
Beside these deep, worn sills of stone, 

To hear if they are praying. 
And still, among these clover walks 

Where pensive bees are humming, 
We muse and wait, as if to hear 

If these old saints are coming. 
From off the moss-grown slabs near by 

We wipe the mould which covers, 
As with the mantle of its love, 

The names of Christian mothers. 
'Tis sacred ground ! and who stands here 

Can scarce resist the feeling 
That in the presence of such graves 

? Twere better to be kneeling ! 
God bless the land whose heroes send 

Their names and deeds on pages 
More lasting than the granite, down 

The avenues of ages ! 



THE OLD CHURCH AT DERRY. 195 

The dreamy winds may whisper on, 

And tablets tell their story ; 
But like the spring's unfolding leaves 

Shall ever be their glory ! 



THE BRIGHTER SIDE. 

A shadow lifted from the heart, 

Or pang of anguish stayed, 
Diminishes the sum of woe, 

And life is better made. 

Kind words, how cheap! but how they charm 

And calm the troubled heart, 
With more of joy and hopefulness 

Than fortune can impart! 

Those who recount their troubles o'er 

Each morning, fill their way 
With gloom and doleful memories 

To curse each coming day. 

Cull from the past the pleasant things, 

Forget the wrong and pain ; 

And from the brighter side of life 

Take hope and heart again ! 
196 



THE BRIGHTER SIDE. 197 

The world is beautiful to those 

Who would its glories find; 
And love bestowed brings back to us 

The love of humankind. 



THE END. 



: Em 




